


Into the Sunset

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Future, Points of View, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-10
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Sequel toA Love That Will Never Grow Old, beginning roughly six months after that story ends. My Season 7. There are characters and situations from the Season 6 story that are referred to, so it will probably be confusing to you if you haven't read that first.As with my first story, my goal is to stick to canon and have everyone behave true to their character as established during the series, but hopefully with some plausible growth. And of course to keep Brian and Justin where they belong--together.





	1. Celebrations

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:

Sequel to [A Love That Will Never Grow Old](http://astele.co.uk/BJfic/Chapter/Details/viewstory.php?sid=10150), beginning roughly six months after that story ends. My Season 7. There are characters and situations from the Season 6 story that are referred to, so it will probably be confusing to you if you haven't read that first.

* * *

**Brian's POV**

Padding across the hardwood floor, I try futilely to shake the cobwebs from my head. Shit. I am majorly hung over. The obnoxiously obvious fact that at 35 I'm not bouncing back as quickly as I used to keeps poking at me. It really sucks…in precisely the opposite of a positive, life affirming way. I make myself some coffee that's stronger than the professor during his stint as a juice pig and trod back to bed with a soup bowl sized mug and the paper. 

Groaning, his eyes flicker open as far as a squint, then slam shut again. He blindly reaches out for the mug. Scolding, "Eh eh eh," I slap his hand away. "You want coffee? Get your ass out of bed and pour yourself some." 

"I just want a sip," he whines miserably, attempting again to snag mine. 

Holding it out of his reach, I instruct, "Fine. Then use one of the shot glasses instead of a mug. But leave mine the fuck alone." 

Mumbling, he rolls over pulling his pillow over his head. I have to admit I'm comforted knowing he's in bad shape too. Maybe it's not the age. We really did have an unusually decadent evening, even for us. Of course despite that, at his age I would have been no worse for the wear. 

Flipping though the pages I hunt for the review. Leaning over, I pry the pillow out of his grasp and read into his ear as he tries to shrink away. 

"Enthusiasts were treated to a virtual orgy of art last night, with seven exceptional young artists celebrating their openings."

Twisting his head to me, he interjects, "It does NOT say that!" 

I shrug innocently, pointing to the text on the page. "To be fair, she's right. I can't speak for the other six, but we certainly celebrated _your_ openings last night," I tease, my hand slipping between his cheeks as he jumps. "But if taking in a bunch of art exhibits, sipping champagne and yammering away in eleven syllable words about the symbolism of a pear or some such bullshit with a room full of drones is her concept of an orgy, it's too bad she's not a fag. I could enlighten her. Blow her fucking mind, among other things." He kicks at me playfully. I continue to read: 

"The best among these were the evocative sculptures of Flora Kyler at the Fischbach Gallery and the visceral paintings of Justin Taylor at the Noho Gallery. The movement of Flora's..." 

"Yeah, whateverthefuck…" I scan down, my eyes searching for his name. Ah, found it. 

"In his show at Noho, Justin Taylor successfully explores a variety of current artistic styles, techniques and media. Yet he's best when he simply puts paint to canvass. Not that what results is simple. His more abstract pieces possess a unique power. Seductively colored and irresistibly compelling, they leave you emotionally raw..." 

He's barely paying attention. "What the fuck is your problem with being successful?" 

"I don't need the approval of a bunch of cunts. That's not why I paint." 

"But you do want to continue to paint. For a living. Right?" 

"Of course." 

"Well then, it's part of the game. Pretentious assholes who can't think for themselves rely on these 'cunts' to tell them what they like. And if they're told your shit is fabulous, they fill their penthouses with it, providing you the means to spend your days up to your elbows in oily paints instead of clearing oily plates." He grabs his pillow back from me, slamming it down on the mattress and burying his face, groaning. The phone rings, and we both cringe from the sound. "What?" I bite as I snap it up, determined to catch it before it inflicts another piercing jingle on us. 

"Wake up on the wrong side of a trick?" I respond with an overtly phony giggle. He continues, "I thought you were coming in yesterday." 

"Justin had a show. I'll come in next week instead." 

"Is he coming with you this time?" 

"I don't know yet. Why?" 

"No reason," he mutters in a tone that tells me there's a very specific reason. I wait for it, knowing he'll spill it in three…two…"It's just that Ben has a conference. I thought we could hang out. You know, the way we used to. Just us." 

"Awww. You mean you want to wait outside the club for me to get a blowjob so you can drive me home? I'm touched." 

"Fuck you. You know what I mean." 

Sighing, I assure him, "I promise we'll hang out, just the two of us, whether or not he comes with me. O.k., Mikey?" Justin rolls his eyes at me, then grimaces from the pain it causes. 

"You sound like shit. Big night?" 

"Just the usual. Took about a half a pharmacy's worth of recreational drugs, drank the entire inventory of the bar, and fucked until my dick was raw. Nothing special." More groaning wafts from the little blond in the fetal position by my side. "Listen, I have possibly the worst headache of my life. Let me talk to you later." 

"O.k. I'll be at my mom's most of the day." 

"Lucky you. Bye." I drop the phone back on the nightstand and swallow a healthy gulp of coffee. 

"My hair hurts," he whines. "And my fingernails. I think even my eyelashes ache." 

"I warned you not to try to keep up with me." 

"You're so full of shit. You're in agony too. I saw you hobble across the floor to the kitchen." 

Busted. "It was worth it though, wasn't it?" 

A sly grin creeps across his face. "He was really hot." 

"You mean 'they'." 

Puzzled, he asks, "They? There was more than one?" 

Laughing, I inform him, "Sort of. They were identical twins." Although I'm pretty sure he doesn't trick very often (or at all) on his own, he does occasionally join me in a threesome, foursome, or moresome. Enthusiastically most of the time. Thank god. It's so fucking hot watching him suck some guy off, having him watch me pound some stud into the mattress. It gets a little complicated now that we've agreed neither of us can bottom for anyone else, but we manage. My favorite snack is the Justin sandwich. I fucking love it. It actually feels like I'm fucking the trick _through_ Justin, who goes absolutely ballistic in the situation. 

He's still searching his compromised memory, but the whole night is clearly a blur. "Really? Twins?" 

Chuckling some more, I remind him, "Don't you remember? They were The Pips to your Gladys Knight when you serenaded me with 'The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me'." 

"Shut up. I did not." 

"Oh, but you did." 

We're back to the groaning and pillow diving. "I'm never taking…um…what the fuck did I even take?" 

"Do you want the list chronologically or in alphabetical order?" 

"Shit." 

Making another painful trip to the kitchen, I grab a couple of bottles of water and toss one at him. "Drink it." I down one myself and climb back in bed where we both fall into a few more hours of medicinal sleep. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

The buzz of the intercom pierces the air and I hear, "Brian, there's an Adam Lyons here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment."

Hmm. This could be interesting. "Tell him I'll try to squeeze him in if he wants to wait." I'm actually available right now, but let the asshole sit and wait. I make a few calls, answer a few emails, clean my fingernails. Finally I hit the intercom, "Send him in, Eden."

"Adam," I say smugly as he walks in, reaching to shake his hand. "Did your lords and masters over at Kennedy & Collins send you to retrieve the Green Meadow Coffee account I acquired out from under them?"

"Not exactly." I sit and motion for him to do the same. "I'm actually here offering to deliver more of them." My expression is dubious but curious, encouraging him to continue. "It seems my services are no longer required there."

"I see." 

Heh. It hardly takes a code breaker to figure out why he's here. How much do I love that he came crawling to beg me for a job? "What happened?"

"I pitched a great campaign for one of our biggest clients, the All Terrain Sporting Goods chain, and…" 

"Great? That was yours?" I snort. "I have to say, using the phrase 'Fun for the whole clan!' with a family dressed from head to toe in white was a tad unwise." Mockingly I add, "You see, Adam, the Klan is a group of distinctly unpleasant…"

"Thank you. I'm familiar. A senior partner vetoed me and pushed his own concept on the client. When it not only bombed but created somewhat of an uproar they needed somebody's ass in a sling."

"I would think you'd enjoy that."

"You'd think I'd enjoy getting royally fucked too. But not the way it happened."

"So what is it I can do for you?"

"I've been watching Kinnetik since I heard you opened it back in Pittsburgh. Then more closely when you opened the New York office this spring. Impressive. But you're growing awfully quickly. Maybe too quickly. It's got to be straining your resources to keep up the quality of work you're doing for that many high profile clients. Especially now that you're entering into the arena of the top firms. You need another heavy hitter on your team."

"And you've decided you fit that bill?"

"I'm a three time CLIO winner with seven year's experience as a Senior Account Rep at one of Madison Avenue's top five agencies." I act unconvinced. "And I can guarantee you that Orleans Foods and the Corley Hotel Group will follow me."

Holy fuck! Whatever you do, Kinney, keep that exterior calm. Don't let on you're fighting yourself not to jump up and whoop. Deep breath. "If you're such a prize, why aren't you hitting Madison Avenue courting the other four top five agencies? Surely they'd snap you up."

"Fitz Collins did a bang up job of pinning the fiasco on me and spreading the word. I'm persona non grata just about everywhere. Frankly, I approached at least thirty other firms before I came here."

I like that he's honest. No bullshitting me. Striving to sound skeptical, I ask, "Tell me this. What was _your_ concept for the All Terrain campaign?" He pulls some boards out of his portfolio and lays them on my desk. They're good. Really good. I stare at them for a while, my face purposefully blank. "Not bad." I hand them back. "Why don't we talk about it over a Chivas. Wet Willy's?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I practically float into the apartment. Justin's sitting at his art table, lost in thought. I drop my crap, spin him in his chair and grab the front of his shirt, hoisting him up and into a hearty kiss. Laughing he guesses, "Good day?"

"Fucking amazing day." I release him and walk toward the bedroom calling back, "Change your clothes. We're going out to celebrate."

"I still haven't recovered from our last celebration. Anyway, you taste like you started already." I just grin back at him. "So what are we celebrating?"

"Adam Lyons came to see me today."

Enjoying the thought, he guesses as I did, "Is his agency all up in arms about that account you pinched?"

"Actually it seems 'his agency' no longer has any use for him."

"Oh, wow." Then he puts it together. "Are you going to hire him?"

"Already did. You may even get to see me occasionally now. It feels like I've spent twenty three hours a day at work getting this New York office off the ground."

"That's because you have."

"And wait until Ted sees what kind of money's going to roll in. It'll get him harder than the locker room after one of Drew's games. 

"What makes you so sure he's going to generate that kind of business?"

He chuckles, "Well, with Theodore it doesn't take much. I'll bet Blake just has to whisper sweet numbers in his ear to get him to shoot his load." Then I add, "He says he can deliver Orleans Foods and the Corley Hotel Group." 

"Holy shit! Congratulations." I don't get it. He's happy for me. I know that. But he's not…you know…he just honestly doesn't give a shit about the money. It's beyond me. Yes, I can live without it (please tell me the disgustingly lesbianic thought "especially if I have him," didn't just fly through my brain). I proved that during the whole Stockwell drama. But to not _want_ it, not strive for it, not crave it…that I don't get.

"What new extravagance are you going to come up with now?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something." 

I duck into the can to piss, and as I emerge he suggests, "Maybe it's time Kinnetik had a corporate jet. Considering you go back to Pittsburg one week each month, not to mention all the trips to Chicago for Brown and Bally. And now, if you've got Orleans Foods, aren't they headquartered in San Francisco? You could even use it to go see Gus."

I quietly consider the idea, stepping into my favorite sleeveless shirt and package highlighting slacks. "You know, Sunshine, that's not a half bad idea. Not buying one. You have no idea what kind of money that involves. But maybe fractional ownership."

He finishes whatever he's working on and plops onto the bed to watch me. After a few minutes, I urge, "This isn't a show. Move your ass and change." Turning around, I reach down and cup his cock, teasingly squeezing. "I want to maul you on the dance floor, then fuck your brains out in the back room." 

He leans back on his hands, staring at me like he can read my mind. Out of nowhere he comes out with, "I don't want the house back."

Snapping upright, I snip, "Who the fuck said anything about the house?"

Looking straight into my eyes, he says firmly, "I'm just saying, I don't." Little shit. So, the thought did cross my mind. So what? I fucking hate it when I get sentimental, and I hate it even more when he sees right through my feeble attempts to mask it.

Annoyed, I bark, "Fine. Duly noted. Not that it was even considered."

Knowing he hit a nerve, he yanks me down on top of him, wrapping his legs around my hips. Seductively, he nuzzles my neck and goads, "O.k. Let's go out. But if you don't want me to wear this, you're going to have to take it off of me yourself."

"Is that so?"

"Mmm hmm."

Pulling my knees under me, I sit back on his thighs, straddling him. With one swift motion I rip his shirt open, the tiny ping of buttons raining on the hardwood quickly following. Under me I feel him react, hardening as gasps in surprise and licks his lips. Holding his wrists against the bed I lean down and languidly lick a line from the base of his throat to his navel, his abdomen quivering. Once I hit his waistband, I slowly pop the buttons of his fly one by one, nipping at the tender, white flesh of his inner thighs as I slide his pants off. His breathing is heavy, his eyes filled with fire as I return to my perch across his hips. Kissing him hungrily, I place my lips against his ear and growl, "There you go. Now put on something hot and let's get the fuck out of here."

I leap up, examining myself in the mirror while he stares at me, stunned. After a few moments of composing himself, he mutters, "Asshole." I just laugh.

Later, after a few dances and a few drinks, I snatch his glass from him and place it down along with my own. "Come on," I tell him, pulling him toward the back room. "I suppose I _was_ a little bit unfair before."

"Unfair? It was pure evil."

"Let me make it up to you."

"That's a pretty tall order. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'm up to it all right," I insist, crushing him to me so he can feel the unequivocal proof.


	2. Long Night

**Justin's POV**

"Come to Wet Willy's and drink with me!" I slur loudly when he picks up the phone.

"You seem to be drinking just fine without me."

"Hot guys are cruising me," I warn.

"Good for you. Fuck one for me. Adam and I have to finish this pitch for tomorrow's meeting with Orleans Foods. I'm going to be up all night, and not for the reason I like to be."

"Poor little tycoon," I mockingly whine.

He huffs. "Later."

"Later." I hang up and look around. I wasn't kidding. I'm getting a lot of attention tonight. I usually do. But I'm not like Brian. His tricking doesn't bother me. It really doesn't. Not anymore. I know they don't mean anything to him, and I also know how much I do. But I've lost interest in it. Don't get me wrong, it was fun, but I don't feel the need. The one thing that's always working on all cylinders for Brian and me is our sex life. And if I'm hankering for a little variety, we invite somebody along. 

Jared's in a play, Daphne's chained to the library, and Alex is out of town showing some of his work. My only hope is luring Jessica and Tony out to take a walk on the wild side. Jess will be game, but I'm not sure about Tony. There's not an ounce of homophobia in him. It's just that he's like an old man about going out on a "school night". I like Tony though. And it's not just because looks a little bit like Brian. Or because, as I remember from busting in on their afternoon delight, he has a body—including a huge, thick cock—to salivate over.

They bite (yay!) and we tear up the dance floor all night long. Tony and I spend much of the evening fending off gropes and other advances from admirers while Jess jokingly encourages him to "sample a new cuisine." At least I think she's joking. I don't know. Do straight girls get off on seeing two guys together the way straight guys do seeing two women go at it? Like I said, I'm not into tricking, but the images of his plump but muscular ass and beautiful cock flash in my mind and I wonder as I have in the past if he ever… Oh, for Christ's sake. I'm so flagged on the booze for the night. On any insanity inducing substances. 

Tony leans over and shouts over the music into my ear, "Us 9 to 5 shlubs need to get to bed. Besides, don't you turn into a pumpkin at 3:00?"

We get our coats and tumble out onto the street. "Thanks for coming out, you guys."

"It was fun!" Jess exclaims, giving me a hug and a hard kiss on the cheek. Then, turning to Tony, she says, "I want filet mignon."

"At two-thirty in the morning?" I ask, floored.

He laughs, giving me a good-natured shove. "You let me down, Jus. I thought fags were supposed to notice stuff like this. I was banking on it." I knit my eyebrows together, my shoulders rising toward my ears. He explains, "We made a bet, and whoever lost has to make the other dinner."

I start to blush, my head somehow convinced that the bet was about me hitting on him. Have I overtly leered at his package? He's wearing new, pretty fucking tight leather pants, and I jump to the conclusion that I'm supposed to have noticed them (which, please, I totally did). Jessica shoves the back of her left hand in my face, the ring twinkling amid the streetlights.

"Oh my god!" I grab her hand, inspecting it. "Congratulations!" I give them both an excited hug, genuinely pleased for them. They're an amazing couple. One of those you just know is going to make it. "Sorry, Ton. I guess fags aren't conditioned to do the left hand ring check."

"Is that why you always wear yours around your neck?" he teases, reaching toward my throat and flipping the platinum band that always dangles there. I never talk about it, and it usually sits under my shirt, but people who are around me enough eventually see it somehow or another. Brian hasn't uttered a word about it since he discovered my choice of neck adornment last Christmas. He behaves as if he's barely aware of the accessory and wouldn't give a shit one way or another about it if he was. Yet I often catch him stealthily peeking at it, trying to hide the adorably drippy grin it spurs. Or he'll surreptitiously but tenderly run his fingers along the leather cord, toy with it, and basically act so touched that I'd never even consider taking it off.

Not bothering to stop at home, I use my ass to push the office door open, a no-fat latte in each hand. "Hey," I say, announcing myself as I enter.

"Hey yourself," he mutters, clearly exhausted. "I thought you were planning to spend the night getting liquored up."

"I did. It's almost three."

"Fuck!"

"I thought you might need these." I hand him one of the cups and reach across the table, passing one to Adam. Drinking the latte down like it's his life's blood, he grabs my arm, pulling me easily onto his lap and sighing, "I knew there was a reason I loved you," before kissing me, a deliciously soft kiss, his lips moist and warm and tasting of coffee. The warmth seems to transfer, washing over me. He's gotten much better about the "l" word thing. Immeasurably. Not that he's become sappy and demonstrative or anything. I would worry if he did. But he's clearly more comfortable with it, confident about it, less afraid of it. Willing to admit it (especially to himself). Of course it's usually said in the wake of some radically emotional moment, like my almost being blown to pieces or his impulsively staged declaration in front of the family. Full of drama and consequence. Grandiose. Kinney-esque. And I treasure each one of those. Memories that will stay with me forever, that I call upon when I need comfort or to feel on top of the world. But there's something almost more momentous when he says it like this. Casually. So matter of fact. Like it's just an accepted law of nature. An assumed truth. 

Adam excuses himself to make copies of something, although I'm sure it's merely a guise to leave the two of us alone. I brush Brian's hair from his forehead with my fingertips. "How's it going?"

He leans his head forward, resting it against my chin. "Slowly. I'm so fucking blocked."

I kiss the top of his head, then lift his chin and prod, "I thought you said you were better than all those assholes on Madison Avenue."

"I am."

"Damned fucking right you are. You'll be brilliant, as always."

He smiles weakly. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep. Don't you have a meeting with Gregory tomorrow?"

"In the afternoon. I can sleep in."

"How novel for you," he baits sarcastically.

Standing, I ask, "Are you going to get any sleep at all?"

"Hopefully. But don't expect me. I'll probably just crash at the lair."

When the construction was going on at the office, he also turned what had been the rectory off the back of the church into a small but luxurious (this is Brian, after all) apartment, ostensibly for staff visiting from the Pittsburgh office or special clients. Also to serve as our "guest house", a place for visitors other than Gus. We use it too. Sometimes I'll stop by for a mid-day tryst. But while it is used for all that, I know him too well to fall for the ploy. That's not why he built it. He can't bring tricks home and the spider needs his web, the lion his den. It's like those straight guys who keep a little place on the side for their mistress. You know, if the mistress was a different woman every time he went there. And the wife knew about it. And was fine with it. O.k. Bad analogy. Anyway, his favorite part of the whole idea is that it used to be a rectory. Quite the statement. At first I dubbed it "the rectumry", but the nickname wasn't practical. There were too many situations where it was too crass to use. So I rechristened it "the lair".

Adam walks back in and I give Brian a goodnight peck. "I'll let you focus on being fabulous. Bye."

As I head for the door, he calls out "Wish us luck."

"You don't need luck."

"Never underestimate the value of luck, Sunshine. You can _always_ use luck."

I guess he's got a point. Sincerely, I wish them both, "Good luck."

*************************

**Brian's POV**

I hear the music before I open the door, and the smile starts in my chest before it reaches my face. The melodic strains of his new Corrine Bailey Rae CD (which he's played incessantly lately) welcome me in to find him crashed out on the sofa, his sketch pad lying on his stomach, charcoal on the floor where it dropped from his hand. Ironically the track "Trouble Sleeping" is playing, accompanied by his faint snore. I sit on the edge of the cushion, run my fingers through his hair as he stirs. "Why aren't you at home?" I ask quietly.

"I thought you might need a little release," he suggests, sending a sleepy grin my way. He sits up, then bends his head to my lap, unzipping my fly and reaching for my dick. I sink back against the leather, enjoying the slow, firm attention of his tongue. Stress melts away as he drags it, wide and flat, along my shaft. We get more comfortable as I stretch out along the sofa and he positions himself between my legs, kissing the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thighs, rolling my balls with his fingers, and tension of a much more desirable kind begins to build. I palm his head like a basketball, urging him to take me in. He resists, staying at the head, flicking his tongue around the rim, eliciting moans of blissful frustration. Enclosing the tip in the searing cave of his mouth, he abruptly and zealously sucks, his cheeks severely hollowing, his tongue tickling my slit. I cry out as my back arches, and he slides his palm along my stomach, extending his arm to rub my alert nipple while he bobs, each dip lower as my cock glides closer and closer to the back of his throat. It finally arrives and I crunch forward, linking my fingers with his and drawing them up to my mouth, suckling them like a hungry calf on his mother's udder. The vibration of his enthusiastic moans travel through me, everything in me shimmying like the climb up the steepest hill of a roller coaster, freezing for that exhilarating moment of anticipation, then experiencing the rush of the descent as I let go, egged on by his bounce as he strokes himself briskly, jumping onboard the ride. He slithers up my body, kissing me fervently, the delectable flavor of tequila and me on his tongue.

"Mmmm. I've been dying to do that all night," he declares.

"Glad I could oblige."

"Jessica and Tony came to Rise with me."

"Ah, your pecker perfect pal."

"He had on really tight black leather pants."

"No wonder you were so fucking horny."

"Uh huh. They got engaged."

"I'm away on business that day."

"What day?"

"Whatever day their wedding is on."

He laughs, "They haven't even set a date yet."

"Yeah? Well, when they do, I'm busy."

Rubbing his nose against my cheek, he whispers in my ear, "You're just afraid you'll get 'ridiculously romantic' again." I smile and brush my hands up and down his back. He snuggles his cheek against my chest and notes, "We should go to bed so you can get at least a couple of hours of real sleep."

"We should," I agree. But neither of us budges. The next thing I know I'm opening my eyes to a blond sprawled across me, head resting on my belly. My skin sticking to the leather, I manage to wiggle out from under him, take a quick reviving shower, get dressed and make some coffee, all without waking him. He sleeps like the dead. 

But as I pass through the door I hear him groggily swear, "You'll get it."


	3. Birds, Bees and Lasagna

  
Author's notes: I wanted to hurry and post a real feel good chapter. I hope with it I give you all the gift of a smile. Happy holidays, everyone!  


* * *

**Justin’s POV**

Rage has monopolized me for the past three hours. I didn’t even realize it had been that long until I hear Brian’s key in the door. He enters toting a bag from which amazing smells are wafting. “Yum! What did you get?” I bound over to him, peering into the bag. 

He snatches it away. “Empress Shrimp and Kung Pao Chicken from Szechwan Palace. What were you planning to eat?” 

“Very funny.” 

The phone rings and he grabs it, grumbling, “This had better not be Eden.” He glances at the caller ID. “Hi, Jennifer,” he answers, relieved. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s an important account. Hold on. I’ll let you talk to your widdle pride and joy.” 

He hands me the phone as I stick my tongue out at him. He leans in and licks it, making me laugh. 

“Hi, Mom,” I say, chuckling. 

“Hi, sweetheart. What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing. What’s up?” 

“I wanted to know if you were coming in with Brian next week.” 

“Yup. Why?” I ask, suspicious. 

“Tuck and I are going away for the weekend, and I was hoping you could stay with Molly Saturday night.” 

Shit. Always ask why BEFORE you answer the damned question, Justin. “I guess,” I respond in a voice that tells her I’m not very happy about it. “Wouldn’t she rather stay over a friend’s house?” 

“Of course. But she can’t. She’s grounded.” 

“What did she do?” 

“That’s between me and your sister.” 

“Oh, come on! It is affecting me, after all.” 

She sighs, giving in easily. “She took the car keys and tried to drive to Kristin’s.” 

“Shit!” 

“Thankfully she never even made it onto the street. And the only person she hurt was Mrs. Connelly’s lawn gnome.” 

“She should be rewarded, then. Not punished.” 

“Justin!” 

“Just kidding.” Kind of. “Fine. I’ll do it. Michael wants Brian all to himself anyway.” 

“Thanks, honey. We really appreciate it.” 

“Looking after the little cherub, are we?” Brian asks as I hang up. I frown and plop my head down inside my folded arms on the table. “Eat up,” he instructs, placing the cardboard containers in front of me and ruffling my hair. “You’re going to need your strength.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

I’m lounging on the couch, playing with Molly’s Nintendo DS Lite while she sits on the floor in front of me, mesmerized by some corny TV movie. On the screen, two pretty teenaged heteros are playing tonsil hockey under some bleachers. 

“Justin...” 

“Hmm?” 

“What’s it like?” 

“What’s what like?” 

“Sex.” 

Oh. “Didn’t Mom talk to you about this stuff?” 

“Please. Sure, she gave me the party line.” Then, mimicking Mom she squeaks, “When you love someone very, very much, it’s a beauuuutiful physical expression of that love.” 

Her impression is actually pretty good, and I can’t help but laugh. “I know. Sickening, right?” She nods. I think about how to answer her. “Actually though, it _can_ be like that.” 

“Is it like that with you and Brian?” 

“Sometimes.” She leans toward me, obviously wanting more. “It’s like...it’s the closest you can possibly feel to another person. Like you’re totally tuned into one another, not just physically but emotionally. Like you’re connected in every way imaginable, and you see even the most vulnerable parts of each other, but it feels safe because it’s them.” I stop because I realize there are no words to adequately describe what it really is. 

She gets that far away look all teenagers get when daydreaming about idealistic love. Then something clicks in her head. “You said ‘sometimes’. It’s not like that all the time?” 

“No, not all the time.” 

“Even with Brian?” 

“Even with Brian.” Just thinking about that... “God, that would be exhausting.” She looks confused. I try to explain. “There are different kinds of sex.” 

“You mean like different positions?” Okie dokie. This is fun. My forehead drops to the table with a thud. Ow. Shoving me, she urges, “Come on, Justin! What do you mean?” 

Sitting up with a deep sigh, I start, “I meant _emotionally_ exhausting. Um, there’s making love, when it’s like that, and then there’s...um...” 

“Fucking, right?” I just stare at her, stymied. Attitude oozing all over the floor, she remarks, “I’m not a baby, you know. I know what fucking is.” Then, the bravado slipping, she asks sheepishly, “So, like, which is better?” 

Interesting question. “It’s not a matter of ‘better’ necessarily. Just different. If I asked you which is better, Ben & Jerry’s Coconut Almond Fudge Chip or Debbie’s lasagna, how would you answer?” I propose, picking what I know are her two most favorite foods. 

She contemplates briefly, then her eyes widen to enormity. “Are you telling me they’re both THAT good?” Her astonishment is so genuine I laugh hard enough to disintegrate into a coughing fit. Impatient, she hits me again. “Justin...are they?” 

“They’re both pretty amazing, yeah.” 

“Even if you’re not in love? ‘Cause Mom is all up in my face about how you have to be in loooooooove.” 

“Moms are supposed to say that. But yeah, even if you’re not.” 

“So, there’s, like, no such thing as bad sex?” 

“I didn’t say _that_.” My stomach turns as I remember The Sap on his knees, sucking me off. “There are circumstances that can actually make it really awful.” Then I add, “Also, um, some people are better at it than others. And some are just plain bad.” 

She looks a little panicked. “How do you get good? Can you practice? I mean, how do you even know what to do?” 

“If you’re lucky, your first time is with somebody who knows what they’re doing and goes slow with you.” Stumbling over my words, unsure how I got into this mess, I continue, “And like anything else, you learn as you do it...and some people just seem to have a natural talent and some I guess just don’t...and...” The doorbell rings and I’m convinced it’s an angel from heaven. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I jump to retrieve my savior. Brian. I throw my arms around him and tell him quietly, “You have no idea how much I love you right now.” 

“Christ, Sunshine. Can’t you even handle a few hours with your sweet little baby sister?” 

“Sweet my ass.” 

Squeezing it, he says, “Now you’re claiming it’s sweet? I’ll be the judge of that. Let me taste it.” He suggests, nibbling the side of my neck and sliding his hand inside the back of my pants. 

Wrestling his arm away, I chuckle, “I thought you were going out with the guys.” 

“I am. Thought I’d stop by first and see if Molly needed any help taking care of you.” 

I bump him with my shoulder for the tease. “You just like being fawned over and you know she’s got a mad crush on you.” He shrugs in that can’t-fight-the-laws-of-nature way of his. 

We wander into the living room where Molly’s combing through the DVD collection. As we enter, she turns to ask eagerly, “Hey, Brian! Are you going to stay and watch a movie with us? What do you want to watch?” 

Scanning the boxes, Brian selects, “Free Willy.” 

“That’s for little kids!” she exclaims, determined to come across sophisticated. 

“Oh. I guess it’s a different version than the one I have.” I smack him in the chest with the back of my hand. 

Continuing to sort through her options, she suddenly looks up and blurts, “Brian, can I ask you a question?” 

“Can I stop you?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Which do you like better? Making love or fucking.” 

I plant my face in my hands, but he responds without batting an eyelash or missing a beat. “It depends on my mood.” 

She ponders this and then mutters, “Yeah, that’s what I’d say about ice cream and lasagna.” 

He crooks an eyebrow at me, confused and exceedingly amused. I just shake my head and tell him, “Don’t ask.” 

We settle on _The Princess Bride_ after heated negotiations. But before the initial graphics have run the phone chimes and Molly snaps it up as the first ring fades. “Oh my god, Erin! Did you talk to him? What did he say?” she shrieks as she dashes up the stairs. 

“Should I pause it?” Brian asks. 

“She’ll probably be on for hours. We should just watch. Or we could do something else while we wait...” I suggest grinning, climbing across the sofa to him. 

“As you wish,” he quotes, throwing an arm around me as I kiss the side of his neck, sucking and nipping the sensitive flesh as he exhales slowly. My lips sliding up to his jaw, I punctuate my path with wet pecks on a journey toward his mouth. When I arrive at my destination, I find it warm, open and inviting. Our tongues play lazily against each other as his hand burrows into my hair, gentle but firm. He sucks my bottom lip, teasing it with his teeth the way he knows I adore as I softly lick at his top one. Abandoning my mouth to toy with my ear, the pliant tip of his tongue swirls the perimeter and darts into the center, but returns to run along my teeth, the roof of my mouth. Every move’s leisurely, easy, tender while our happy little sighs add a soundtrack to the film. I could do this forever. 

We smooch as Westly and Buttercup fall in love, as stories of the Dread Pirate Roberts are told, as Prince Humperdinck demands Buttercup’s hand in marriage and as Vizzini, Fezzik, and Inigo kidnap her. While they sail away toward the Cliffs of Insanity, we hear the rumble of a throat clearing. “Impressionable youth approaching.” Shaking her head, she questions, “Aren’t you two a little old to be making out on the sofa?” 

“In-con-ceivable,” I recite, leaning over to sink my tongue deep in his mouth once more. 

“Gross,” she groans. 

“I’ve got to get going,” he says, untangling himself from me. I walk him to the door where he forcefully pulls me to him and plants a final, heart stopping kiss on me. “Sure you can’t lock her in a closet or something and come along?” 

“I wish. Besides, Michael needs some bonding time with you. Go have fun.” 

Shaking his head, he sighs, “First you get me all horny and then you send me away without so much as a hand job. I had no idea you could be such a cock tease. You’ve always been so easy before.” 

“Go,” I laugh, shoving him out the door. “See you tomorrow.” 

“As you wish,” he repeats. I just chuckle and close the door. 

************************* 

**Michael’s POV**

“So did you guys hear that Connor James signed to do an Off-Broadway show?” Ted wonders. 

“Uh oh. Brian’s got a little competition heading his way,” Emmett delights. 

“Of course, Justin swore Brian is better in bed,” Ted so generously reminds us. 

“You know, Connor might come after him. Fight for him,” Emmett fantasizes dreamily in the way only he can. 

“Earth to Emmett,” I say, knocking at his head. 

“Why not?” he asks. “If he’s as good as Brian claimed.” 

“Give me a break,” I mumble skeptically. “Brian was just being nice. I would have named Ben as my best too if he’d been sitting right next to me.” 

“Excuse me,” Ted spits, disbelieving. “Did you just say ‘Brian was just being nice’? Our Brian?” Then he pats my hand, patronizingly assuring me, “Of course he was. That’s so like him.” 

“I don’t know, Michael. There has to be something to what Ben suggested at Justin’s show. He _has_ sampled some enviable morsels. Brian, Connor James, that cutie Ethan, not to mention that Latin specimen of perfection we saw in New York. And word around town is our little King of Babylon would give my Georgie a run for his money as the King of the Blow Job.” 

“If the sounds coming out of Brian’s office are any indication, Justin must be extremely talented...and I’m not talking about art.” Then he conspiratorially informs us, “And let me tell you, I’ve walked in at some inopportune moments. Our ‘little’ King of Babylon isn’t so little!” 

“Really?” Emmett bubbles, his interest peaked. 

“He’s not Fetch Dixon, but he certainly can hold his own.” 

“Who can’t?” I point out. Emmett laughs while Ted smirks. 

“Well it makes sense. Brian would never have kept him around in the first place if the boy wasn’t...extraordinarily gifted,” Emmett philosophizes. 

“Can we talk about something else?” I argue, biting aggressively into my pizza. They throw each other a sage glance, stifling smiles. 

Right on cue, Brian bursts through the door. “Hello, girls.” Seeing our stuffed cheeks he snipes, “Shit. Did you piranhas at least leave me a piece of crust?” I slide him a plate with a full piece on it. “No Lyle and Blake?” he asks. “So they let the little women out for a night on the town. How modern of them.” 

“They went to a movie,” Ted bites back. “They thought we might want to relive days gone by.” 

“It’ll be fun!” I chirp. 

“Wooohoooo!” Brian sarcastically whoops, crumpling onto the sofa and sinking his teeth into his slice. 

I don’t care. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Just one night like it used to be. Before Lyle and Blake. Before Ben or even David. Before Justin. I wouldn’t want to turn back the hands of time permanently, but for one night...fuck yeah. I miss it. 

It completely lives up to my expectations, everything just the way I remembered. Dancing with Brian’s arms resting on my shoulders, Emmett’s hips gyrating wildly, Ted...well, barely moving. All of us getting wonderfully lost in the drumming thumpa-thumpa. One thing is different thought. Brian doesn’t abandon us even once to exercise his dick. We keep scoping out scorching hot candidates, evaluating their potential as all of them eye him hungrily, licking their chops. But each time, he scrunches his nose and says, “Eh, not yet.” Yet never comes. 

He drives me home and follows me in to hang out for a little. Just the two of us like he promised. I love tonight. I drop down onto the couch and he leaps, landing laying on his back, his head on my lap. “Look what I have,” he sings, pulling a fat joint out of his pocket. He lights it and we alternately take hits. It’s good shit and I haven’t done this in a while, so I’m high immediately. O.k., so I got high immediately even when I did it on a regular basis. The giggles take over and he rolls his eyes and mutters, “Shit, Mikey. You are so pathetic.” But his tone is unmistakably affectionate. 

“I thought it was going to be different. It’s not so bad.” 

Sympathetically, he states, “Being stuck with somebody as fatally boring as Zen Ben? I’m glad you’ve made your peace with it.” 

I jostle his head with my knee. “No! Ben is so not boring. He’s really smart and sweet and he treats me...” Why do I let him bait me? We both smile, acknowledging he got me. Again. “I meant you moving to New York. I thought I’d never get to see you.” 

“I told you it would be o.k., didn’t I?” I nod. “We’ve always been there for each other, and we always will be. A few hundred miles can’t change that. Right?” 

“Right.” 

I must be giving him a sappy smile, because he ribs me, “If you start spouting crap about us being just like Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad, I’m going to puke.” 

“I wasn’t going to say that!” I deny emphatically. I _was_ thinking it, but I wasn’t going to say it. Changing the subject, I ask, “Did you hear about Artie Frost?” 

“Our illustrious football captain and class president?” 

“He got arrested.” 

He starts to laugh. “What the fuck did he do?” 

“His wife caught him fucking his secretary in their bed, so she turned him in for tax evasion or some shit like that.” His laughter builds. “Wait. The best part is that his secretary was...do you remember Lisa Shelby?” 

“She was uglier than Ted in a dress! He was fucking Lisa Shelby?” He completely loses it, laughing uncontrollably. It reignites my initial giggle fit. 

I have trouble getting it out through the hilarity, but shaking my head I tell him, “His secretary was her brother Larry. Can you believe that? Mr. Eagle Scout Young Republican?” 

“I believe it,” he says, no trace of surprise on his face. I look at him questioningly because there’s clearly a story here. “He sucked me off once.”  
  
“Artie Frost?!” 

“Behind the Wendy’s on Bently. After the game against Schenley senior year. He’d just had a frosty too. Fuck, his mouth was cold.” 

“ _That’s_ why you started calling him Frosty? I could never figure out why he got soooo pissed when everybody adopted it. I mean, who doesn’t love Frosty the Snowman?” 

“Except he was Frosty the Snow _blower_.” Both of us feeling the effects of the joint by now, we tumble off the sofa onto the floor, rolling in hysterics, tears streaming down our faces. We eventually calm down, laying on our backs and staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure how long. We may have even drifted off for a little. But after a while Brian gets up. 

“Where the fuck did I put my jacket?” 

“Want to stay here tonight?” I ask hopefully. 

Poking fun, he uses a silly falsetto to shriek, “A slumber party? Totally awesome! We could, like, do each others’ hair and talk about boys!” He plans a hand firmly on my shoulder, his voice dropping. “I have something to attend to.” 

Of course. It’s ‘yet’ now. “Let me guess. Your dick. Off to hunt down tonight’s fuck?” 

“You know what I say. A day without sex...” 

“Is a day without Sunshine,” I tease. 

He glares. “Not all of us have come down with a severe case of heteroitis, Mrs. Novotny-Bruckner. I for one remember what it is to be a fag.” 

“I’m pretty sure taking it up the ass on a regular basis still qualifies me as a fag, asshole.” 

Contrite, he bows his head to mine, our foreheads meeting. “Of course it does. You’re right. If you’re happy in Stepfordland, you should live there. But I have no intention of taking up residency.” He gives me a kiss, pressing his lips against mine and lingering a moment. Fuck. Why does that still cause flutters in my stomach? He’s right. I’m pathetic. 

I walk him out to the car and he waves. “Have a good night, Mikey.” 

I respond, “Have a good ass.” He smiles devilishly. 

But for all his talk, I have to snicker as the red taillights reach the corner, pause way longer than necessary, and then turn left, away from Liberty Avenue or the loft and towards Jennifer’s. Towards Justin. 


	4. Near Miss

**Brian's POV**

I feel like I'm chaperoning a school field trip tonight. Justin's youth is always accentuated when combined with the company of his contemporaries, and we came to Rise tonight with Jared, his brother Tom, Alex, and his newest victim...Mike? Mark? Something like that. He'll no doubt be history soon enough so no need to put any effort into remembering his name. His name not withstanding, I must say I wouldn't mind a piece of this new piece of ass. The guy is smoking hot. All of Alex's hook-ups are hot. I should know. I've fucked them all. Not that Alex knows this. Or Justin. 

Anyway, the young thing... I guess it's all par for the course. How many years had his circle of friends been made up of Daphne and my motley crew? Christ, if we're speaking technically, Ted could be his father. More disturbing, if we're getting really technical so could I. Whoa. Let's banish _that_ thought...IMMEDIATELY. 

Tom really hit the jackpot. He's not hideous, but you wouldn't notice him if he waved his dick in your face. But between Alex, Mike/Mark, Jared, Justin and of course me, every remotely fuckable guy in the place has his eyes trained on our little merry band. He keeps pulling a Theodore, pouncing on our castaways. It's working pretty damned well for him too. Fine with me. He's so excited he's doling out the pharmaceuticals like M&Ms, and he gets some seriously Grade A shit. 

I split a tab of E and place half on my tongue, pulling Justin in for a deep kiss, depositing in his mouth. Then I pop the other half down my own throat. Sick of my stint with the Romper Room crowd, I grab him and drag him onto the dance floor. We begin to move, heads together, hands on each others faces, hips grinding, bending my knees enough so that our dicks collide. The insufferably perky nurse at the hospital always coached me to focus on my "happy place" during the suck ass treatments. I never told anyone (fuck, I can hardly admit it to myself), but I actually did it. Begrudgingly I have to concede it helped. And this was it. My "happy place". Nobody would believe it's not up Justin's ass...or anyone's ass for that matter (although those options are a close second). It's on the dance floor...with him. Of course during treatment I always imagined us at Babylon, and that's the ideal. The original. But it doesn't really matter. What matters are the lights flashing, the thumpa-thumpa thumping, a particular blond twink grinding against me in time to the music in the crush of hot (in more ways than one), sweaty, horny men. 

Walking home, my arm slung heavy over his shoulder, I feel blissfully high. Not only from the various substances I ingested and inhaled whose job is to make me feel just that way, but that goofy kind of high on life sensation. 

Floating at a considerable altitude himself, he growls in my ear, "I want you to fuck me. All. Night. Long." 

"I think that can be arranged." 

But apparently he can't wait. As we approach home, he suddenly grabs me and shoves me forcefully into the alley along the side of our building, slamming me against the brick wall. Before I even know what's happening he's on his knees, my cock in his mouth, hungrily lapping at me. In his zeal we didn't duck very far into the alley, and I can clearly hear people passing by, sounding like they're standing right next to us, obliviously having their casual meaningless conversations. It's so fucking hot I'm afraid I'll barely last a minute. Grasping his head, my own thrown far back, moans and gasps winding their way out onto the street, I feel the familiar delicious tingle in my balls. He slides one hand up my abdomen and I grasp it, squeezing firmly as I shoot into his eager mouth. 

Still voracious, the instant the door shuts he's yanking my jacket off, tearing my clothes from my body. I make a mental note to give him E more often. We kiss our way to the bed, haphazardly stepping out of pants and underwear along the way. 

I tumble on top of him, the both of us writhing against one another, our rigid cocks pressed together. I reach for a condom and he catches my hand. "Not yet," he insists throatily, his blue eyes practically navy with passion. I lean down and kiss him fully, deeply. He expertly strokes my dick, then positions it along his crack like a hot dog in a bun. A perfectly bubbled bun. The powerfully throbbing vein running along the bottom drags against him, feeling so fucking amazing I could die quite happily in this moment. I'm fucking his crack, his hand closing the open channel as he squeezes his cheeks together, creating a remarkably tight fit. The ridge of my cock head catches as it grazes his quivering hole, sending shocks to every extremity. My chest constricts, each breath a concerted effort because, Christ, it feels so....fucking...ohhhh god...he's pushing back against me, tilting his pelvis until the blunt end of my profusely leaking cock presses against his hole. As much as I've ever wanted anything, I want to pop through his puckered entrance, past that strong ring of muscle, feel his hot skin against mine, glide into him unencumbered and feel him. Really feel him. He'd let me. I know that. Let me? Shit, he wants me to. He's wanted this from the beginning. If I'm honest so have I. But I never even let that thought take hold, because we can't. We just can't. Period. Barebacking's only for dickless fags who have no cause to worry about the dire possibilities or mindless, reckless twats. 

I still can't fill my lungs. The air feels thick and my head is impossibly heavy, but I'm dizzy just the same. I open my eyes and drink in the sheer ecstasy on his face, the concentrated desire. Not just his typical hunger, but something other. Something more. His eyes flutter, rolling back in his head, cloudy with lust, begging me with their gaze, urging me inside. 

"FUCK!" I bellow, tossing his legs off of my shoulders with brute force, shock overtaking his face. 

"What's wrong?" he cries, alarmed. 

I stomp into the bathroom, dousing my face with frigid water. I brace myself against the counter, leaning forward, my head down, eyes closed, struggling to regain my composure, literally shaking from head to toe. 

Running up behind me, slight panic bleeding from every pore, he tries again. "What the fuck just happened? Are you o.k.?" I simply inhale. Slowly. Deeply. Then exhale the same way, my face flushed and on fire. "Brian?" he risks carefully, approaching me as tentatively as a hunter sneaking up on his prey. He tries to rest his hand on my back, but I flinch and he retreats. 

"Don't ever fucking do that to me again. _Ever_." 

"Do what?" He's genuinely baffled. "Brian...what did I do?" 

Clearing my throat so I come across authoritative instead of quivering, I drum into him, "Condoms are not optional." 

"I know," he responds definitively. But after a short span of silence he realizes what just happened. Almost happened. "I didn't mean to...I wasn't trying to..." He draws a deep breath, his voice tinged with shame. "We just got carried away, I guess." 

"We _can't_ get carried away. Not like that." 

There's another pregnant pause. Then he proposes hopefully, "There are plenty of couples who aren't monogamous and do it raw just with each other, but use a condom with tricks. Lots of them. And they're... 

"No," I interrupt, stemming any discussion. 

He pushes, "We both just got tested. We're negative. Why can't we..." 

"NO." 

Refusing to give up, he places his hand gently on my back and whispers, "I love you. I just want to be as close to you as I can. I want to feel..." What he feels is the my muscles tense beneath his palm. He changes course. "I know you'd never put me at risk. I wouldn't either, to you. Never." 

Jesus. He can't be that stupid. Not at this point. "At risk?" I whip around to face him. "I engage in shit that puts me at risk every fucking day. There's no such..."  
  
" _Every day_?" he repeats, emphasizing each word, appearing and sounding positively crushed. Fuck. 

"O.k. Not every day." Christ, those wounded eyes. I reassure him, " _Not_ every day. Not nearly every day. O.k.?" He nods, still looking somewhat shattered. Holding those grieving blue orbs with my own, I softly admit, "Not most days. The point is...often enough." 

Still, he's fucking relentless. "And you're always safe," he presses. "Always. Right?" 

Anger and fear that he might actually get me to relent ignite, spilling over as I grab his arms. "Don't you get it?" He's startled at my intensity, the energy behind my outburst. "Christ, Justin! Do you have any fucking idea what it would do to me if you got...fuck, if _I gave_ you..." I have to stop, my voice warbling. I swallow, closing my eyes, my head sinking down. Calmer, I look directly into his eyes, demanding his undivided attention. "I always say I'm invincible, and it's true. I am. Almost. I can survive just about any crap life throws at me. I already have. But that..." I pause again, my voice cracking, "I couldn't live with that." It comes together for him, his eyes glossing over, the determined set of his jaw relaxing. 

He places his hands on my hips and begins to hug me, to slip his arms around my waist. But I pull away. I can't. I just can't. I feel like a caged animal. I need to get out of here. To fuck someone into the wall, the floor...whatever. To slam my dick into some faceless ass. To have a mouth on it with meaningless eyes. To fuck someone who doesn't matter. To revisit the place where I only have to worry about myself. Where I'm my top priority. My _only_ priority. Where I don't feel like my mere existence could taint something so pure and beautiful. The churning in my stomach won't quit, the swirling turmoil from that moment of realization of how close I was to crossing that line, how I wanted it more than my next breath. All I can do is grab my jeans and t-shirt and storm out with him staring after me helplessly.

************************* 

**Justin's POV**

The blue glow of the LCD on the clock mocks me. What is it about us and blue light? 3:00. He's not home. I even called his cell and the lair to no avail. I feel sick. Nobody knows better than I do how he feels about this. I shouldn't have pushed it. I don't think I was even aware I was doing it. At least not consciously. I just wanted...god, I so badly want to feel him inside me. Him. Not latex. Just once I want to feel against me what my lips, my tongue, my hands have worshiped so devoutly. To feel the heated spurt as he comes inside me, the subsequent hot trickle. That ultimate feeling of intimacy. 

But I didn't think. I'm such a fucking idiot. That look on his face has been burned in my brain since the moment he walked out the door. I thought he was just being stubborn, putting his foot down because that was the law according to Kinney and he's so sure he knows what's best for me. But now I'm remembering what he did to himself the last time he thought he was responsible for harm coming my way. As bad as he got after Hobbs used my head for batting practice, it terrifies me to think of the depths he could sink to now that he's given in to loving me. 

The heavy thud of the door reaches my ears and I'm flooded with relief. 3:07. Despite the circumstance I have to chuckle inwardly. The rebel with his own cause. He never breaks our rules...deal...whatever. Those extra seven minutes were a reminder that he can do whatever the fuck he wants. They were a message. To me or to himself I can't say. Maybe both. 

I can tell by the cadence of his footsteps that he's beyond wasted. Not that it's a surprise. Tom called to warn me he came back for more. Pretty much bought his entire stash. I don't even try to pretend I'm asleep anymore. He always knows. Somberly staring me down as he passes by the bed, he doesn't speak, walking without slowing down into the bathroom. I hear the shower and wait anxiously until it stops. Damp, he climbs into bed, pointedly laying with his back to me. 

"Brian..." I sound like a 12 year old who broke his mom's favorite glass vase. 

"Go to sleep." 

"I'm sor..." 

"Justin..." he barks, cutting me off. Then he sighs, "Just go to sleep." 

I scoot over, spooning behind him, wrapping my arm around his waist and pressing my face into his muscular back. He's like a statue, completely non-reactive. Solid stone. I tighten my grip and a small sound squeaks out of the back of my throat. Not a sob exactly, but a tiny signal of distress. After a moment he lets out the breath he was holding and rubs my forearm, twining his fingers with mine, holding my hand close against his chest where I can feel the steady beating of his heart. It's only then I can fall asleep. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

Sitting on the sofa sketching while Brian quietly works on the computer, there's a distinct tension in the air. I told myself I would wait for him to speak, certain any conversation I initiate will be shot down again. But sometimes we are who we are. "Brian, I didn't mean to..." 

"I'm working," he interrupts curtly. Some patterns are too ingrained to change. The silence lasts another hour. O.k., it's probably five minutes, but it sure as hell feels like an hour. Finally he mumbles, "It's not that I don't want to." 

I jump at the opportunity to fix this. "I know." I only speak those two words out loud, but my voice, my tone carries the whole message. I know how much you love me. I know you yearn to remove that final barrier as desperately as I do. I also know you truly need what prohibits us from doing it. I know you're only denying yourself something you long for to protect me. I know. 

"You said you were o.k. with things." Anyone who doesn't know him like I do would take that shading in his voice to be irritation, but I can read him better than that. In actuality it's a hint of desperation. 

I'm desperate too, to undo it. To take away the anxiety I unintentionally caused. "I am. I swear," I insist, my response overly eager. 

He glances up at me without moving his head, then returns his visual attention to the monitor, putting such effort into presenting that cool, unaffected facade. But his thumbnail works its telltale way between his front teeth. "You've said that before," he reminds me woefully. "And then you change your mind." 

Life's funny. First he was afraid I wouldn't go away. Now he's afraid I will. You'd think I'd find some satisfaction in that, but I don't. Instead it makes me hurt terribly for him. I walk over and kick his feet apart, standing before him between his legs. My hand firm on his neck, my thumb on his jawbone maneuvering his head to face me as he tries to avert his eyes, I affirm, "We have a deal. And a deal's a deal, right?" He twitches a small, unconvinced smile. "I'm in this for the long haul. I wish you weren't so sure that one day I'm going to stop loving you...or conclude that I never really did. See 'the real you' and come to my senses." The painful flash in his eyes betrays I've hit the nail on the head. "I told you before, I'm fully aware of your imperfections. I know who you are. The true you, not just the person you want everyone to think you are. I might even know you better than you know yourself. And I'm not going anywhere. It's never going to happen, Brian. Fuck, I've tried. Several times. It just doesn't take." We both smile softly. "You told Michael that no matter what you would always love me. Remember? It's the same for me." Deep rooted skepticism is written all over his face. Exasperated, I cry, "Christ, Brian, when are you going to believe that I don't have one foot out the door?" 

He boomerangs back, "When you believe I'm not going to shove you out of it." We huff a laugh at our mutually stubborn predictability. Our eyes locked, we complete the conversation non-verbally. We tend to communicate best that way. Words get us into trouble. Once I'm confident the turbulence has passed, I gently kiss him and return to my work. 

The tension diluted, we toil in comfortable silence for a while. Then I hear him mutter, almost as if he were speaking to himself, "I'm not saying never." 

"Huh?" 

He doesn't look up. Just shrugs casually. "I'm just saying it's possible...someday. Maybe." 

I tease, "Sure. When you're old and wrinkled and I'm the only one left who thinks you're the hottest guy in the northern hemisphere?" 

"Northern hemisphere? Are you implying there's some Aussie down there hotter than me? Besides, I'll always be young. I'll always be beautiful. Ask Mikey." 

I reach over the back of the sofa, retrieve an item from the bowl on the table and return to him. "Would you do me a favor?" 

With an exaggerated sigh, he whines, "Another one? I think you've maxed out your quota." 

"Would you please fuck me?" 

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." He plucks the condom from my hand and rips it open with his teeth.


	5. Define "Perfect"

**Brian's POV**

Staring at the boards spread on the table before me, I repeatedly glance up at Justin, who's puttering around aimlessly. Alice just left and I can tell he's debating whether or not to start a conversation about…I have no fucking idea what about. Something I undoubtedly won't want to discuss. I'm not at all anxious to have one of his little "talks," but his antsy wandering is getting on my last nerve. Finally I pipe up, "Guess I should turn up the heat."

"Huh?"

"Seems a little chilly in here," I remark, nodding my head toward the door.

He smirks at me, "Oh. Well, he's not your biggest fan at the moment."

"He's just jealous because you're hopelessly devoted to me."

Facing me, he crosses his arms in his cute little confrontational stance. "Why do you find it necessary to fuck everyone he begins to date?"

Hmmm. Didn't know either one of them had that particular piece of information. "Who told you that?" 

"Nobody had to tell me that. I'm the world's reigning authority on the mating rituals of Brian Kinney."

"And here I thought you majored in visual art." 

Ignoring the crack, he continues, "Mick broke up with him. After you fucked him he decided he wasn't ready to commit to one guy."

"Smart man. Who the fuck is Mick?" His disbelieving expression tells me I'm supposed to know this. "You mean Mike/Mark?"

"What is it? Do you feel the need to prove he's no competition for you? And to whom? Him? Me? Yourself?"

"I don't have to prove anything to anyone," I snipe a little too defensively. I fucking hate when he analyzes me. Especially when he hits a little too close to home.

"No. You don't. So with thousands of fuckable guys you've yet to meet in this city, why do you need to zero in on his prospects?"

"Can I help it if his little playmates all find me irresistible? Why should they be any different than any other fag on the planet? Anyway," I add, wiggling my eyebrows at him. "I have it on good authority that I'm a better fuck. It would be unfair to deprive them."

"Might want to sit down. That ego must weigh a ton," he scoffs. Then he cooks up his next argument. "Besides, technically it's against the spirit of our deal."

"How do you figure that?"

"They're not anonymous fucks. You know them. You know their names."

"I think I just exhibited that I didn't know his name." 

He begins to speak again but stops, aggravated. Sighing, he requests, "Can you just leave the guys he likes alone?"

"If he's that insecure, I'll do my best to keep his target twinks at bay."

With a frustrated huff he challenges, "Maybe you should just get it over with and make a bet with him like you did with that Brandon guy." Ouch. That hits a little hard. I must look dumbstruck because he confirms, "Yes, I know about your stupid fucking bet." Then he laughs to himself as the pun hits him.

Still silent, I just stare, a bit flummoxed. Of course some asshole decided it was his duty to run and report it to him. Probably couldn't wait. Then it happens. I bark accusingly, "We weren't together then." Like that's some rational explanation for the juvenile stunt. Shit. Am I really explaining myself like some whipped hetero hubby? Angry, I remind him sharply, "You left." There. I don't need to fucking defend myself.

"I may have moved out of the loft, but I didn't move out of Pittsburgh. Did you really think I wouldn't hear about it? Word of that pathetic bet spread across Liberty Avenue faster than a case of the crabs." 

I knew it was front page news, but I never really contemplated him finding out. I'm not enjoying that thought. Not enjoying it in the slightest. At least I won.

He examines me as if I'm a quadratic equation. Taking a stab at solving me he asks, "Does it bother you that I spend so much time with Alex?"

"I'm not your warden. You can spend time with whoever the fuck you want." That investigative look doesn't fade, but he nods, pretending he accepts my answer. Or almost answer. Because we're both well aware I didn't really answer the question at all.

He sinks into a chair and clicks on the television. But a few seconds later he turns it off, getting up and walking over to me. "Fuck this. You're doing it again."

"Making you hard?" I ask, wrapping one arm around his waist and reaching for his crotch with the other.

"That thing where I ask you how you feel and you dodge." I toss him a you're-a-pain-in-the-ass-to-deal-with grimace, but it doesn't discourage him. Did I really think it would? "I know I can spend time with whoever the fuck I want. I wasn't asking permission. I asked if it bothered you."

I release him, turning back to my work. He doesn't budge, waiting me out. I fucking hate this shit. I don't want to tell him…Christ, I don't want to tell myself that there's this tiny flip of dread in my stomach every once in a while when it occurs to me he was right, they really are so perfect for each other it's scary. 

With a defeated sigh I admit, "It doesn't thrill me." I peer over at him, hoping to god that was enough to get him off my back. He seems satisfied. Hallelujah. 

Making a trip to the fridge, he grabs two beers, setting one down on the table for me. Strutting behind me, grinning victoriously, he professes, "If I wanted to be with him, I wouldn't have dumped his ass because it wasn't yours." He punctuates the statement with a sturdy slap to my posterior along the way, and a mollified smile slowly conquers my lips.

I catch his wrist, beer splashing from his bottle onto our hands, yanking him towards me roughly. He sucks in his breath, startled and decidedly turned on by the manhandling, not to mention my lascivious expression. Bringing his hand to my lips, I suck the beer from his skin with a wet, open mouth. His exhalation rattles as my mouth travels, slathering his arm from the thudding pulse point to the ticklish crook of his elbow. He's watching me intently, barely breathing at all now. My hands skim the silky skin beneath his shirt, my fingers lightly raking his tender flesh. His eyes flutter, and an impossibly soft whisper crosses his bubble gum lips, the kind you expend when uttering something sacred. "Brian." Good lord! Just from the faint sound the hairs on my body stand on end. My cock nearly leaps out of my jeans. 

I reciprocate, pressing the front of my face against the side of his, breathing, "Justin." An involuntary squeak escapes from somewhere in the back of his throat. Increasing the pressure of my forehead against his temple I pledge, "I'm going to make you come." I bite at his earlobe. "I'm going to make you come without either of us even _touching_ your dick." I feel him gulp.

In one quick motion I remove his top, pinching one tense nipple with my fingers, the other with my teeth. I pry the bottle from his grasp, trickling beer down the center of his chest, my tongue gradually following its trail to his waistband. The further south I progress, the more his breathing accelerates. His fingers weave their way into my hair, my scalp massaged as they flex rhythmically. A tiny mewl marks each new bright pink polka dot I leave on his milky skin as I suck a haphazard pattern upon his alabaster abdomen. He frantically undoes his pants, his cock popping out like a Jack-in-the-Box. Deliberately avoiding the springing organ, I rap his hands harshly to discourage him from destroying my mission. Thank god I didn't include my own dick in the challenge, because I'm so hard I could break glass. I slip his pants down his legs and discard them. His eyes burn through me as I place one hand just under the hem of my shirt, rubbing myself so it creeps up, exposing more and more of my body, purposefully moaning as I caress my own nipples. It's torturing him, but each time his hand seeks out his now skyward pointing pole I smack it away, causing his cock to dance for attention.

When I unfasten my button and unzip my fly with snail-like motion, sliding my other hand along my belly and into my shorts, stroking myself, my head dropping back as I groan loudly, he weakly gasps, "Uhhh, I need to…"

"Shhh!" I demand. His fists clench so tightly I think he might draw blood. I continue to handle myself, stepping out of my clothes and circling him, pressing up behind him, grinding my stone cock against his ass. With a whimper he pushes back and I grab his head, my hand across his forehead, snapping it back against my shoulder. Low and stern I command, "Be a good boy and behave." His weight leans against me, his knees refusing to fully support him any longer. My hands force his shoulders down and he drops. I drag the head of my cock along his face until it hovers a fraction of an inch from his tormented mouth. He looks up at me and I grin. "Suck it." It's all the invitation he needs. He grabs my ass, deep throating me all at once (not an easy task), swallowing hard as I hit the back of his throat and I cry out, nearly blasting my load. I intended to draw this out, but the way he's gobbling my cock I know I'm a goner. My balls tighten (well, one of them anyway) and there's no option. It's time. I jerk back, gripping my shaft as I shoot, aiming for his chest, decorating him with whirling ribbons of cum.

His breath uncomfortably heavy, he makes another move for his dick but I anticipate it, intercepting his hands and manipulating them so they wipe the souvenir I left across his torso, smearing it until he's evenly coated. Kneeling, I mop it up doggedly with my tongue, meticulously retrieving each drop. A substantial tremor originating in his gut, I can tell a serious orgasm is about to whip through him. Clasping my shoulder with one hand, the other sinking into his own thigh, pulsing streams spurt like a geyser from his evaded member. First one, then a second, and as the third emission begins I suddenly and unexpectedly capture the forbidden appendage in my mouth, suctioning wildly, pouring gas onto an already raging fire. He hollers, seizing, nearly folding in half from the fierce contractions of his stomach muscles—contractions that won't seem to stop. Even afterwards, when he dissolves into my arms, robust aftershocks persist a good long while.

Finally regaining control of his senses, he smiles a high watt smile at me, self-satisfied. "Fuck, that was hot. I must remember to make you jealous more often."

With a get-over-yourself glare I insist, "I don't do jealous."

But lest I forget, the little shit is onto me. Has been since day one. "Of course. How presumptuous of me. So what should we do next? Listen to some violin music or find some drawings of Rage to piss on?" 

What can I say? No cutting comeback is going to change history. So instead I kiss him fervently. Maybe that'll shut him up (yeah, right). His grin shifts to concern. "It's that stupid 'perfect for each other' comment I made last year, isn't it?"

I roll my lips in nervously, biting down on the swollen tissue inside. "You are."

Troubled, he swivels in my arms to face me. "No, we're not." My eyebrows convey he's not fooling anyone. "We're _not_. Do you realize in all the time I've known him, we've never had an actual fight? Not one. And no matter what I do, he always tells me it's great." This isn't making me feel better, and he sees it. "If we were together it would be excruciatingly _boring_. He never makes me question anything, never challenges me, pushes me, calls me on my shit. Never forces me to open my eyes or see things differently. And sure, the sex was good. Even great sometimes. But it was never…he didn't…" Finding the precise way to explain himself, he smiles evocatively. "He could never make me come like a fucking racehorse without either of us touching my dick." You bet your perfect little ass he couldn't, Sunshine. I smile back and he kisses me, cupping my face in his hand. "He could never make me become the best homosexual I could possibly be." 

I wish I knew how to say all the right words to appease him like he does for me. I always fuck it up. And I'm sure this will add to the list, but I can't resist. "Piss."

"Huh?"

"It's 'piss' like a racehorse, not 'come'. Unless you have some first hand knowledge of the ejaculation of such an animal that I should know about," I tease, illustrating by miming jerking off.

Embarrassed at his blunder, he swats my hand. "It's just logical I'd come like a horse since I'm hung like one."

"Dream on, twink."

"I haven't heard any complaints."

I'm sure he hasn't. I smooth my hand along the side of his face. "You won't hear any from me."

Hoisting himself off of the floor, he holds out his hand to help me up. We head to the bathroom, climbing into the shower. As the hot water cascades down our bodies, he slides his arms around me from behind, lathering up my chest, my stomach, slipping down until my cock disappears into his sudsy fist. Mmmmm. Nudging me toward the built-in bench he instructs, "Bend over. Time for a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

"Why I dumped his ass for yours."

*************************

**Lindsay's POV**

Nothing makes a house finally feel like a home like the gathering of loved ones for a holiday celebration. When Debbie called to tearfully inform us she and Carl were going to his daughter's for Thanksgiving this year, I was naturally sad. But then I realized it was an opportunity and my excitement at hosting it grew. I could finally make this house feel like home with the woman I love, our beautiful children, and both of their fathers. 

True to form, Brian grumbled at first. He claimed Debbie's departure had him elated that he was finally free from "forced familial poultry merriment hell". But I knew he'd come in the end. I giggle as I realize of course he did. Brian Kinney _always_ comes in the end.

Lolling on the sofa in our respective post-turkey comas, he glimpses over, wondering what's got me so tickled. Instead of sharing the joke I tell him, "I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah? Well, you played dirty."

"I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know Gus called you until he came bounding into our room screaming that you agreed to fly up. He's your son, Brian. He's the master of getting what he wants."

"I beg to differ. If I got what I wanted, I'd be downing a glass of Beam at Sodom right now, bellying up to the beefcake buffet. Not here at muncher mayhem."

"You don't fool me. You're as happy to be with him as he is to be with you."

He sports a confessional grin, but there's a touch of melancholy in his voice. "I figure I owe him at least this."

I wish he didn't do that to himself. "You give him a lot more than one Thanksgiving dinner. You flew up for his birthday, called on his first day of school. And you made sure we got down to visit you twice this summer." I can see in his face he believes that's all inconsequential. I work to convince him further. "Unlike a lot of fathers, you know the names of his teacher and his best friend, you know his favorite food, his favorite color, you even know what size he wears, although I have to tell you it's patently absurd for him to have that Hugo Boss leather jacket you sent. It won't even fit him by spring!"

"It's my paternal duty not to let the boy's fashion sense be molded by two dykes. In fact, I'm pretty sure that would constitute abuse."

I smack him, then bring us back to topic. "When we left Pittsburgh, you were worried Gus wouldn't get the chance to know who you are. He does, Brian. He knows the most important thing about you. He knows you love him. You understand better than anyone that too many kids grow up without that, even plenty with live-in fathers." I hate to pour salt on that wound, but he needs some perspective.

Sounding Gus's age himself, he looks down at his hands and asks me, "How do you know he knows?" It stabs at my heart.

"Follow me." I pull him up, towing him behind me to the kitchen, straight to the mini-gallery on the fridge. "Did you see this? His teacher told them to draw their family. With so many kids from families of divorce, she went out of her way to explain that family doesn't have to be just the people who live with you, but the people you love and who love you." I hand him Gus's masterpiece, chock full of colorful stick figures.

"Who the fuck are all these people?" he laughs.

I list them as I point, "That's Gus in the middle. I'm holding his hand, and that's Mel behind us. Here's JR, Michael, Ben, and Hunter. Holding his other hand is you, and next to you is Justin. In the back there are Debbie, Carl, Jennifer, Tucker, and Molly. This is a boy who knows he is loved. He knows he's loved a whole hell of a lot."

He valiantly fights to mask how choked up he is. Scanning the other pieces he asks, "What's that one?"

"They had to draw what they wanted to be when they grow up."

"He wants to be a majorette? Someone needs to tell him it's not very lucrative."

"No! That's not a baton. It's a paintbrush. He said he wants to be an artist like his Mommy and his Uncle Justin." 

"Should my ears be burning?" Justin asks, joining us.

"You've corrupted my kid," Brian indicts.

"Corrupting minors is your forte, not mine," Justin reminds him, poking at his side. "What sinister influence are you accusing me of having on your child?" I show him the drawing and explain. Smiling broadly, he pats Brian on the shoulder. "Don't feel bad. Not many kids fantasize about growing up to own an ad agency. It's not…you know, sexy enough." As our babysitter Tara would say–oh, snap! I try to suppress my giggle but can't quite manage it.

Brian gets that stung look, but as always he recovers so quickly you almost think you imagined it. Grabbing the waistband of Justin's pants and pulling him in vigorously for a demonstrative kiss, he responds, "You don't believe there's even one molecule of me that's not sexy enough." The crinkled nose and mile wide grin that spawned his nickname serves as a silent confirmation. Then, reaching out and slapping my ass, Brian quips in my direction, "You don't believe it either. Don't bother denying it. In fact, I'll bet you can't find a person alive who does."

Justin and I simultaneously identify the obvious, "Mel." 

He cringes at the mere thought. "I was referring to actual human beings."

I snatch the picture from him. "Go put your kid to bed, Mr. I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt."

"Good one," he mocks. "Do you people get any music from _this_ century up here in Outer Mongolia?" He calls out for Gus, who scampers to his side. He laments to the adoring boy grasping his hand, "You're apparently in dire need of my influence in more areas than just fashion." Shaking his head reproachfully, he lets Gus hop onto his back, dutifully climbing the winding stairs to tuck in our son.


	6. Family Ties

**Justin's POV**

I'm singing along to the radio and miss the sounds of Brian getting home and sneaking up behind me. When he throws his arms around me from behind and squeezes I jump.

"You artsy types, always in your own little world." He kisses my cheek and crosses the room to lower the volume.

"Sometimes it pays off." He looks at me, inquisitive. "Gregory and I had a meeting today with Enid Hiller."

"The Grand Damme of Hiller's Chocolate?"

"Uh huh. She was at my last show and bought that large canvass that was hung on the back wall." He nods in recognition. "It turns out she wants me to paint something in her entryway. At her home…in PARIS!"

"What do you mean 'in' her entryway?" he asks, picking up the check on the counter.

"On the wall. Right in the foyer. She wants a mural."

"Is this what she's paying you?" he wonders, impressed, waving the check in the air.

I shake my head with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. "That's what she's giving me up front. The other half I get when I complete the job. Plus expenses."

"This is _half_? Shit, Sunshine. I'm glad to know if Kinnetik folds you'll to be able to support me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed."

"She says it'll be empty while I'm there except for some staff. She doesn't go in the winter. So she said I'm welcome to stay there as long as I'd like." 

"She doesn't know you like I do. I'm sure the poor woman thinks you'll eventually go away." What a card. "How long do you think you'll be there?"

"I don't know. I never did anything like this before. A month?"

He clearly wasn't expecting that answer. "Why can't she hang a fucking painting like a normal person?"

"She's not normal. She's incomprehensibly rich. Anyway, who gives a shit why she wants it? I get as much time as I want in Paris, with luxury accommodations for free. God bless this chocoholic nation!" I'm positively buoyant.

"Is it smart to be out of town for that long? Out of sight, out of mind is highly applicable to the art world, you know," he suggests, overly eager to sound pragmatic.

I can't suppress the shit eating grin. "You don't want me to go."

He looks at me like I cut one, plopping down on the sofa to flip through the mail. "Don't be a twat. If you want to go, you should go."

"But you don't _want_ me to go. If I'm a twat, I'm your twat. And you want your twat right here where you can exploit him nightly." I crawl on top of him, my knees straddling his thighs. He tosses the mail aside, rolling his eyes at me. "You're going to miss me soooooo much."

"Grow the fuck up." Yup, he's upset. And I love it.

"Tell me you'll miss me," I demand. He stares impassively so I tickle his sides. "Say it."

"Cut it out," he snipes as he squirms, grabbing for my wrists. But his pout is beginning to morph into a grin. 

I counter his defensive moves, tickling him more insistently as I press, "Tell me. Say you can't survive without me. That life isn't worth living unless I'm by your…"

Flailing and cackling, he surrenders. "O.k.! O.k., I'll miss you. I will." Catching his breath he places his large hand across the center of my face, shoving playfully. "Are you happy now?"

 "That depends." With a hug I tuck my face into his neck and ask, "How much?"

"Keep pushing it. If you continue to remind me what are a pain in the ass you are, it won't be much at all. It might even be a relief." I sink my teeth into his neck. "Ow!" He tightens our embrace, then reveals with a tone low and sincere, "More than you know."

"Me too," I add quietly, soothingly kissing the teeth marks I left on his skin. "She said I can bring friends. As many as I want. It's a fucking mansion. It's got, like, twenty bedrooms or something. So, _pal_ …wanna come? After all, what better place to practice frenching?"

"First of all, you may need practice but I'm internationally ranked." Then, serious, he points out, "Sure. I'll just take off for a month. I have nothing to do."

"You could. You're the boss. Cynthia and Ted run the Pittsburg office without you all the time. And Adam can hold down the fort here for a few weeks. Besides, it's not like you can't work at all. There are phones, computers…"

His hands on my waist, he removes me from his lap. "The New York office hasn't even been open a year, and this isn't the Pittsburgh market. It's the big leagues. It's going to take a lot longer to establish myself. We're doing well, but that can disappear in the blink of an eye if I don't stay on top of things. It's just not possible."

"O.k. then. How about just for a week? A couple of days even. In the middle sometime." I scrunch my nose, trying to look as cute and irresistible as I know how to. "Come on. Do you realize in all this time we've _never_ been away together?"

"We went to Toronto. More than once."

"That doesn't count!"

"We'll see."

"Please," I beg, nibbling his favorite spot, the one behind his right ear. Seductively I promise, "I'll blow you on top of the Eiffel Tower."

Following a little moan he repeats, "I said we'll see." I move to stand but he holds me down. Feigning anger, he challenges, "Giving up so quickly? Where's that annoyingly unstoppable Taylor perseverance? Quitting certainly won't convince me."

So smiling, I engage in my most effective means of persuasion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

I feel like the Michelin Man in this new parka. Probably look like him too. But it's doing the trick, keeping me nice and toasty as I'm pelted by hunks of snow. Ducking behind a snowdrift I form a hard ball, then pop up to bean Brian with it. When it hits him, he pretends to be mortally wounded, making quite a show of falling down. Gus's giggles can be heard in every corner of the park, and he takes a running dive, doing a belly flop onto his father.

"Gus!" Lindsey calls. "Why aren't you wearing your hat? I told you we're going home if you take it off one more…"

"It's on! Wait, Mom. I'm putting it on right now!" he cries, running over to the bench where his mother's sitting holding the wool cap out in front of her. 

Brian takes advantage of the distraction to ambush me, wrestling me down to the ground, pinning me under him. I struggle, but he's too strong. Leaning down, he kisses me with his icy, chafed lips, but his tongue is warm and soft as it penetrates my mouth, and despite being encased in snow I melt under him. 

From above we hear an austere reprimand. "Isn't it bad enough you behave in this sinful manner? Must you do it in public, where there are children…" The woman abruptly halts her admonishment when we look up at her. "Brian?"

We stand, brushing snow off of our selves. "Hello, Mom."

"I…I'm surprised to see you. I heard from that Novotny woman that you had moved to New York."

"Debbie spreads the news better than Katie Couric."

"First I have to find out from her you're sick. Then that you've moved away. Do you know how much that hurts, Brian?" Maybe as much as your mother telling you your cancer was punishment from God for being gay, you bitch. But he'd never say it. He'd never let her know he gives a shit about what she thinks at all, let alone be hurt by it. 

Her eyes keep shifting over, noticeably curious about me. He doesn't miss it. "Justin, you remember my mother."

Recognition begins to sink in. "You're the young man who was… with Brian when I, um…"

"Barged in uninvited? Discovered I fuck guys?" he finishes snippily.

Looking like she bit into a lemon, she throws him a disapproving glare. Then she turns to me again, calculating in her mind. "That was five years ago."

"See where I got my ability to do basic math when I'm three sheets to the wind?" he snarks.

She takes his jab in stride. "Does that mean you're…do you…are the two of you…"

"I'm his partner," I assert proudly, slipping my arm around his waist. He responds by placing his arm around my shoulders. Despite the fact that his face betrays nothing, I know he's not happy I shared that information with her. Not because he's ashamed, but because he'd prefer she know as little about his life as possible. For some reason, though, I want her to know. It's stupid, but I guess there's this part of me that believes if she sees he's in a committed relationship she'll see him in a better light. Of course, I don't think she'd consider our arrangement a committed relationship, so my theory's blown right there.

Gus runs up whining, "Daddy! I'm ready to go sledding now. DADDYYYY! Come on!" He pulls adamantly at Brian's arm.

A battle between horror and disbelief wages itself on her face. "Daddy? You have a child? How can you have a child?" Her eyes jump between the two of us.

Sarcastically he sighs, "Someone should have had that talk with you by now. But since he's not ready for it yet, I suppose I could rehearse on you."

She's distinctly unamused. Crouching down, she asks sweetly (or what passes for sweetly in this ice queen), "How old are you, young man?"

"I'm SIX!" Gus states proudly, holding up the appropriate number of gloved fingers.

"DON'T talk to him," Brian barks, his free arm encircling the child protectively. His voice softens considerably as he instructs Gus, "Go get the sled from Mommy and pull it up to the top of the hill. We'll be there in a minute." 

Joan peers past us. "Is that the Peterson girl?"

"None of this is really your concern."

She's livid. "None of my concern? I have a grandchild I never even knew about! Do you really hate me that much?" Then it occurs to her. "He must have been born, or at least been on the way before your father died. My god, Brian, how could you not tell us we have a grandchild?"

"Seeing as how atrociously your other ones turned out, I thought it safer to keep you far, far away. Anyway, Dad knew. He met him. He even held him." 

Shit. Brutality must be an inherited trait. That one was meant purely to stick the knife in, and it worked perfectly. She looks like she's just been gutted. "It seems there was quite a lot you saw fit to share with him and not with me. When he was the one who…" she pauses, clearly devastated. "This is my grandchild, Brian. I have a right…"

He's deceptively calm, although I know the rage and hurt is bubbling wildly beneath the surface. "No, you don't. You don't have one single fucking right when it comes to my son."

Eerily poised in return, she grieves, "I tried to explain you before how important it is to mend your ways and embrace God in your life. To have someone who is always there for you, no matter what. You're a parent now. You should want that for him. Just as I want it for you."

"Brian has that. He has me," I interject emphatically. I feel his grateful grip tighten around me.

He adds accusingly, "And my son has that. He has people who love and accept him for who he is, whatever he is." 

Over our shoulders she watches Gus struggle, lugging the heavy sled up the slippery slope. "It's not right, Brian."

"What? That I fuck guys? Are we still stuck on that?" he spits, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the pain in his voice.

I almost feel sorry for her as she declares mournfully, "Christmas is a time to be with your family."

He swallows hard, attempting to curb the emotion threatening to overflow. Pulling me tighter to him yet, he turns to see Lindsay and Gus rollicking joyfully in the snow along with Mel, Michael, Ben and JR. Then his eyes lock to mine and they soften and shine. "I am."

*************************

**Debbie's POV**

The scene is utter pandemonium. Chaos, clamor and cacophony. It's fuckin' beautiful. After missing Thanksgiving with this rag tag bunch, I told them all in no uncertain terms that attendance at Christmas was mandatory.

I haven't quite figured out how the girls are going to haul the kids' truckload of toys back to Toronto. A 757 won't be big enough. Screw it. Who gives a shit? We'll ship 'em. My best gift is watching their little eyes light up. 

Now that they're preoccupied, it's the gown ups' turn. Sunshine hands out tiny silver foil boxes to each of us. "This is from me and Brian."

"Holy shit!" I exclaim, leaning over to peer out the window.

"What's wrong, Ma?" Michael worries.

"I'm just checking the sky for flying pigs. Thought for sure I'd see that before Brian Kinney gave a fucking couples gift."

Smiling self-consciously, Brian threatens, "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm taking yours back." I transmit a just-try-it glare, clutching the box to my breastbone.

Justin quickly defends, "We've given gifts together before."

"Oh, shit. Is this some accessory for the sling you gave us?" Michael wonders scornfully as Emmett begins to impatiently tear his wrapping at the suggestion.

"Wait!" Justin exclaims. "You all have to open them together."

"Jesus. Leave it to the drama queen duo to make this a production," I tease.

"Just open the fucking gift," Brian snarls.

We all concurrently rip them open, removing miniature chocolate Eiffel Towers. Tied to them is a gorgeous certificate, clearly designed by our very own DaVinci that reads "Redeemable for 1 trip to Paris".

"Oh my god!" Emmett shrieks, delirious.

I stammer, "Are you fucking serious? Everyone?"

"Airfare and lodgings are courtesy of Justin and me. Shopping sprees and pastry binges are on your own dime."

"We don't necessarily expect everyone to come at the same time," Justin explains. The lot of us burst out laughing. "You know what I mean!" he sputters, blushing. 

"Justin's going to be there for a commission for a little while. I'm flying out at the end of January. But you'll each let us know what works for you."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Emmett squeals, hopping up and down and clapping his hands, nearly knocking the both of them to the ground with enthusiastic hugs.

"You're welcome. Now get the fuck off of me," Brian barks.

Leaping onto Lyle's lap, he delights, "My sweetie and I can seal our eternal love with a kiss in a gondola under the Bridge of Sighs."

Ted corrects him. "That's in Venice." 

"Oh," Emmett remarks, momentarily disappointed. Recovering, he determines "Well then, we'll just have to track down some French landmark that does the job. They must have one. It is the 'City of Love' after all."

Ted shakes his head. "No, Em. It's the 'City of _Lights_ '."

Good naturedly, Emmet demands, "Stop raining on my parade, Teddy. All I know is it's FABULOUSLY romantic!"  

Rolling his eyes, Brian cuts in. "And Theodore, I had a word with your inconceivably hot, exceedingly generous boss. Yours comes with a week off. We'll call it comp time."

"Wow! Thanks, Bri." Gloating, he predicts, "Cynthia's going to shit a brick."

"Nah, she'll be fine." Ted looks dubious until Brian explains, "I got her the same thing."

"I have to hand it to you," Ben praises gratefully. "Nobody shops quite like you do."

"There's one condition," Brian adds. Looking straight at Michael he lays down the law. "I have no intention of viewing even a single slide." Justin, Ted and the girls nearly spit out their egg nog. Now wait a minute. I loved seeing Michael's trip!

Ben's lost. "Word of warning, Professor. Paris turns Michael into an insufferable snob."

"Fuck you!" Michael shoots back. Then he uncomfortably asserts, "Anyway, it wasn't Paris that did that to me. It was David." Ben sweetly hugs him, kissing him to ease the gloom that crept onto Michael's face.

A din of excitement permeates the room as we all dream up plans for our upcoming adventure. I smother Justin, planting a big fat wet one on his cheek. Then I squeeze Brian, conveying in a hushed tone (yes, I can do hushed), "I'm proud of you."

He laughs, "For bequeathing you all an outlandishly charitable gift?"

I'm dead serious, though, and I'm determined for him to really hear me. Holding his face in my hands, I look him square in the eye, clarifying, "For finally having the balls to put that 'outlandishly' guarded heart of yours out there. For finally letting yourself be happy."

"Thanks… _Mom_ ," he sheepishly replies with a gentle peck to my forehead.

"Love ain't easy, kiddo, but nothing's more worth the trouble."

"That is so profound. Did you learn that from a greeting card or a fortune cookie?" 

One of my hands leaves his face and snaps back, slapping it affectionately. "I learned it from living it, smartass."

Mel shouts, attempting to get everyone's attention. "Lindsay and I have one more present for Gus and JR." Four little ears perk up. They bounce across the room, eager for their next treasure. "They're ready, Linds!" Mel calls out. A small furry ball zooms into the room, ricocheting off of people, toys and furniture like a pinball smashing into bumpers. The kids are beside themselves, chasing it around, screaming with glee.

"That thing is never entering my home," Brian declares.

"Aww! Come on, Brian. He's sooooo cute!" Justin protests, holding the adorable golden retriever puppy up to his face.

"I think not. I already took in something cute whose main purpose in life is to eat, shit and sleep." Justin sticks his tongue out at him. "What? I said you were cute." 

"Can we call him Astro?" Gus begs.

"Yeah! Astro! Can we, Mommy?" JR pleads. 

"Sure, baby," Mel allows. Then to the rest of us she elaborates, "They watch the Jetsons on this cartoon network we get. When they first heard the dog's name, they thought he was the superhero Michael always talks about."

"Christ, Mikey," Brian whines. "You've already brainwashed my kid. Now he's got a hard on for Captain Astro before he even has his first 'boner fide' hard on!"

"Says the man who subversively schemed to ensure his son's first word was 'Prada'," Lindsay charges.

"So? Tons of kids start out with 'Dada'. It's not such a jump."

"And in this case, they're practically synonymous," Ted ribs.

"Gammy, weed it to Astro," JR demands, handing me her pop-up _The Night Before Christmas_ for the eightieth time today. I don't give a shit. I'd read it eighty more if would make my little angel smile.

The crowd groans in concert as I once again happily recite, "'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…"


	7. The French Connection

**Brian's POV**

"You won't _believe_ this place!" exclaims a wonder filled Justin.

"You'd be surprised at what I'd believe," I reply, a tad distracted by the mind-boggling cock shot on the screen in front of me.

"It makes Britin look like a gatehouse."

"Shit." My amazement is about the stunning organ before me, but whatever. Let him think I'm fascinated by his rambling.

"It took me about an hour to decide what bedroom I want to use..." 

He continues blathering on, and I interject every once and a while with some random noise that implies I'm spellbound by his spirited recitation. Meanwhile I promptly email TitanTool107. I have got to see this thing in the flesh.

"...and that's when I jumped in the Seine to save the king."

"Cool."

"Brian!" Oops. I guess "cool" wasn't the appropriate response for whatever that last remark was.

"Sorry. I was preoccupied there for a second."

"Don't you mean from the 'second' I called?" Why is it I still think I can get this shit by him? "So, how big is it?"

"What?"

"I know you're surfing cock shots." Damn. How'd he know... "I'm around when you talk to Michael, remember." Oh, right. 

"Well, if either of you would get to a god damned point with less than an hour of preliminary incoherent bullshit..." I jokingly confess. "I'll email you the link. It's a fucking monster." He just laughs (At least he didn't get in a snit on me for once. Guess he really _is_ happy to be there.). 

"I'm off to explore. There are so many things here I'm dying to see."

"I'll bet. Keep detailed records. I want a full scouting report on le service trois of the men of Paris."

"Not that. I'm talking about sightseeing."

"So was I."

"You're incurable. I'll talk to you later."

"Later."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cracking gum has got to be one of the most irritating habits in existence. Without question.

"Today's pink plate special is your favorite, baby. I'll bring you one. Turkey on whole wheat, dry for you?" she asks me. Pop! More gum cracking.

"Bring me a cheeseburger and fries. And a black and white shake." She and Michael catch each others' eyes, grinning like Cheshire cats. "Are you planning on hovering like a fucking gnat, or are you going to place our order some time before the second coming?"

"It's noon. I assumed we're past the second by now. Maybe even the third or fourth. Guess you're slowing down in your old age," she retorts as she turns and leaves us.

Dark beady little eyes fix themselves on me, paired with a smug smile. "You miss him."

"We're not you and Ben, chained at the dick. And I don't mean for fun."

Sustaining his simpering mug, he goads "So why'd you bite my mom's head off? And order a cardiologist's nightmare?"

"I'm fucking hungry. That's generally the motivation for coming to a food service establishment." Even coupled with my what-planet-are-you-from attitude, my argument would probably be more convincing if I didn't sound like the prototypical candidate for an anger management seminar. 

"Then why have you been in Pittsburgh since the day after he left for Paris?"

"I own two businesses here, Mikey. It's called responsibility."

"It's called pining for your boyfriend. And sulking." The remark makes him the recipient of my seething glare. Sincerity reclaims his tone. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you miss him, Brian. He misses _you_ like crazy."

"When did he say that?" More importantly, when did I start to sound like a seventh grade girl crushing on the cutest boy in class?

"Both times I talked to him. He can't wait until you get there. Oh, and he said to remind you to nag Daphne or Eden about picking up the mail. He's afraid the huge pile is a neon sign to an 'unsavory element' that you're out of town for a while."

"Why would he think there'd be more than would fit in the mailbox?"

"Because of how long you've been here."

"And he knows that because...?"

"I told him." Just what I need. My own personal fucking gossip columnist. "I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. He just said, 'I figured.'" It occurs to me that life was immeasurably better before so many people had me pegged, when I was the untouchable, mysterious, mythical man (perhaps untouchable isn't the most accurate term—I was touched with astounding regularity). 

Frankly, it felt weird in New York without him. And it was barely more than twenty-four hours. For some reason I don't think twice about living alone here, but it's different there. Probably because our place is enormous. Yeah, that's probably it. Of course, he does it all the time, when he doesn't accompany me on my monthly trip home or when I'm away on a business trip. Let's face it. That's the issue right there, isn't it? My monthly trip 'home'. Yes, I live in New York, but I still think of Pittsburg as 'home'. Even though it bugs the shit out of me, it seems I always will. Nothing's more demoralizing than discovering I'm so pathetically provincial.

Debbie drops our meals in front of us with a snide little grin and I get to work consoling myself with artery clogging comfort food. "It's about fucking time you joined the world of us mere mortals," Michael prods, kicking me under the table. I'm about to snipe back at him, but when I look up his face offers nothing but soft-hearted compassion, so I elect to skip it and stuff another fry in my mouth.

*************************

**Justin's POV**

"Monsieur Taylor, I hate to impose, but Yvette is having some trouble getting a sack of flour down from the top shelf of the pantry."

"It's no imposition," I insist, setting down my brush and wiping my hands on a rag. "And I've told you a million times, Cecile, please call me Justin."

"Oui, Mons...Justin." 

As I step on the first rung of the ladder in the pantry, I spot an identical sack on the floor. "What's up, Yvette? Are you opening a patisserie?"

"Oh, how silly of me! Please forgive me. I'd forgotten Claude got one down this morning."

"So you don't need me to..." She shakes her head, looking, well, I'm not sure. I can't put my finger on it, but it's definitely fishy. I shrug, returning to the foyer. It's late, but I'm working long hours, anxious to get as much done as I can. Brian and the guys are arriving in two days and I'd love for them to see something close to the finished product.

Cecile descends the long, winding staircase. "Mons...Justin," she corrects herself. She's really having a hard time with this familiarity thing. It's been three weeks and she's still fighting herself to remember. But the formality makes me uncomfortable. "There was a delivery for you while you were in the kitchen."

"There was? This late? I didn't even hear the doorbell. What is it?"

"Je ne sais pas. I left it in your room."

What the hell could it be? The paints I ordered came yesterday. I trot up the stairs, curious, completely unprepared for what awaits me—the most beautiful sight I could imagine. Brian stretched out on my bed, naked but for a yellow flower decorating his nether regions. "What...how...when..." I stutter.

"I've always said you're nothing if not eloquent." I'm frozen in place. "So...aren't you going to deflower me?"

I grin so widely my cheeks hurt, lifting my shirt over my head as I approach the bed. Kneeling, I pluck the flower from its enviable resting place and reach to set it on the side table. But he catches my arm, bringing the blossom to his nose and inhaling deeply. 

"I guess that cements it. Your turn," he instructs, forcing my hand to my own nose.

My eyebrows knit, puzzled. He smiles a smile that stops my heart, his eyes shining like a new penny. Suddenly I inspect the bloom again and a lump forms in my throat. "No fucking way! This is a..."

Nonchalant, he downplays the gesture. "I found it. Somebody must have forgotten it in the cab."

"Uh huh. Somebody just happened to leave a golden gardenia in the very cab you hailed?"

He shrugs, "Weird coincidence."

"Brian..." I croon, thick and syrupy. Sometimes he truly amazes me.

"I know. I'm fucking unbelievable."

I have to gulp before any sound will come out of my throat. "It's true. You are." I lean down and kiss him tenderly, one hand caressing his face while the other works to free me from my pants. "God, I missed you so fucking much."

He envelopes me in his arms, our sweet kiss intensifying, his lanky legs weaving into mine. I pull back to absorb the sight of his magnificent eyes, still not believing he's actually here. Grabbing my face he implores, "If I have to indulge a disgusting level of sentimentality, can we please at least save it for later? _After_ I fuck the shit out of you?"

"By all means," I heartily agree.

We meet for a more determined kiss, mouths eagerly roaming over faces, necks, ears, chests, hungry moans boosting our arousal. I feel the blood pulsing strong and hard through my veins, my heart pounding rapidly. His fist encloses my cock, but I swiftly prevent any motion. 

"I'm too close," I gasp.

"Already?" he comments, enjoying his outrageous effect on me. I close my eyes and nod. "We should do something about that." He ignores my plea and begins to stroke, slow at first but as my breath catches his movements get harder and faster, his thumb swiping my engorged head at each pass. I press my head firmly against his shoulder and in no time my cum is spilling out as I groan his name, coating his pumping hand.

I bring his fingers to my mouth, sucking them clean of my emission, his cock twitching against my thigh. He bows his head to my stomach, his tongue digging into my navel, rooting around until I'm whimpering like a kitten. I guide his wet fingers to my hole, inserting them, fucking myself on those long, skillful digits, writhing breathlessly. It's an unmistakable message that he'd best get his cock into my ass pronto, and thankfully he's fluent in that language. Sheathing himself, he hoists my legs onto his shoulders and attempts to enter me.

"Fuck, you're tight," he exclaims.

Gritting my teeth against the pressure, the burn, I pant, "It's been a few weeks. I didn't bring the big dildos."

He chuckles, pausing for me, then easing himself in little by little. I grab his ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh, clutching until he begins to pound me the way I like, violently, bending me in half as his lips insistently dive for mine. I clutch handfuls of his hair, squeezing my hole around him as I meet each plunge. 

"Don't come yet," he commands. I look at him, the helplessness apparent on my face. "Don't," he repeats, shaking his head, eyes drilling into mine.

He slows the swing of his hips, but his strokes grow longer, harder, deeper. Oh, god. I don't think I can hold off. I want to come. I _need_ to fucking come. Guttural gurgling illustrates my effort. He leans down and whispers gruffly in my ear, "I said don't come. Wait for me." A loud sob of frustration bursts out. Our chests pressed together, my hands squeeze between us, one squishing my balls, the other the base of my dick, trying every trick in the book and more to fend off the waves demanding to flow through me, concentrating at least as hard as I did during that very first hand job. But I've honed my skills considerably since then. I employ my adept muscles, hoping to massage the orgasm out of his cock. Groaning in reaction, he slides his hands under my back, up, around and hooks them onto to my shoulders, jerking my body down as he thrusts up, rolling his hips so my prostate is perpetually rubbed. My grip on myself intensifies until I hit my absolute pain tolerance. Shit! I honestly can't stem this tide a minute longer. Sensing it and a hair away from that point himself, he struggles to gasp once more, "Don't. Come. Yet."

Yanking my shoulders with amplified strength, his penetration increasing to where it seems like my entire torso is being skewered, like his already beautifully imposing tool expanded another four inches. My face screws tight, my eyes mash shut, my teeth grind together relentlessly as from deep in the core of me grunts seep through my fully locked jaw at the pinnacle of each invasion, the rumble at least an octave lower than I've ever heard my voice before. "Fuuuuck." Thrust. "Fuuuuck." Thrust. "Fuuuuck." Thrust. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck." Thrust. Holy motherfucking shit! If I don't come _right now_ there's no question my heart, or possibly my dick, will literally explode. 

"Juuuuuuuuhhhhhhh" My name not fully formed on his lips, the shudder begins, overtaking him quickly, ferociously. He slams into me, bearing down until his pubes scratch at my ass, his balls nearly flattened. The first pulse of his cock I feel against my spasming hole pushes me past the brink I've been teetering on so precariously. The second I release the stranglehold I have on myself I instantly erupt and come hard. Harder than I ever have in my life. Harder than I ever imagined possible. So hard it feels like I've pulled every last muscle within me. So hard it's almost frightening. An unearthly sound pours out of me, reverberating off of the walls, the ceiling, threatening to shatter the windows. Or is that him? Is there even a separation anymore? 

He collapses on top of me, both of us drenched and thoroughly exhausted. I feel his dead weight press down, unmoving as I run my fingers lightly up and down his back. I'm so spent I don't even have the energy to fall asleep. I just linger blissfully in a semiconscious state, pulses continuing to race through my nerves and muscles, feeling like sleet pelting me from inside.

His hand eventually crawls toward our connected bodies and I compress around him threatening, "Don't you dare." He kisses my shoulder, his hand dropping back down to the bed. Finally I drift off my favorite way, with him still inside me. 

*************************

**Brian's POV**

Here's some shocking news. He's still sleeping. So I tear myself away, don my robe and head downstairs to hunt for coffee. My partner in crime hears the footsteps and appears at the base of the staircase before I do.

"Good morning, Monsieur Kinney. I trust you slept well." Damn. She's good. She's not even fighting a smile or suggestive smirk. This chick knows how to do discretion.

"Thanks for your help with my little covert action."

"I was happy to do it. Monsieur Taylor has been floating on air as your arrival date neared. I knew he'd be overjoyed with the surprise of seeing you early."

"Which way is the kitchen? I'd like to make myself some coffee."

She grins as if I'm a sweet, naïve child. "No need. You'll find coffee each morning in the sun room, along with pastries and croissants. And if you'd like anything hot just let me know."

I bite back the smile. Hell yeah, I'd like something hot. Always. Bring it on! Of course I already have that order filled, and it's waiting for me upstairs. Decorously I just say, "Thank you." The coffee smells heavenly, and I settle into a plush chair with a cup, viewing the spectacular grounds. Sinking my teeth into a croissant I nearly pop a woody. Buttery, warm and flaky, it may be the best fucking thing I've ever put in my mouth (well, food-wise). I don't care if it means four straight days on the Stairmaster, I'm eating my fill of these while I'm here. I'm astounded that Justin hasn't gained a little pudge by now with these abundantly available. 

Alert and satisfied, I head back towards the bedroom. But my journey is cut short as I step into the foyer. Immobile, I behold the impetus for this entire venture. I was too focused on sneaking in undetected last night to catch it. I've used so many superlatives to express my impression of his work in the past—breathtaking, exquisite, spectacular. But none of them adequately captures the genius of this. It's criminal to leave it here, in some rich bitch's foyer. A foyer she probably only enters a handful of times a year. I want to find a chain saw and cut the fucking thing out of the wall so I can take it with me.

Enraptured by the mural, I don't hear him clomping down the stairs. I'm glad. Staring at me from the half-way point he witnesses my honest reaction as I revere the results of his labor. Noticing him, I try to speak but can't think of what to say. I'm the actual definition of speechless. His entire face experiences a power surge, enough to light up all of Paris at night. Completing his trip down the stairs, he situates himself in front of me. My arms enclose around him and he clutches them, leaning back against me. We stand together in the shadow of his masterpiece, quiet. 

Finally, the only thing I can think to say slips out. "Fuck." Brilliant, Kinney.

It gets the point across though. Twisting his head to kiss me, he replies, "Thanks."

"The preposterous amount of money she's throwing at you for this..." he looks at me questioningly. "She's getting one hell of a bargain."

He turns in my arms, wrapping his own tightly around my neck and lifting himself up on his toes to press those shining bee stung lips against mine, his tongue soft as velvet seeking refuge in my mouth, his fingers feathery in my hair, instigating an unmistakable flutter in my chest. It's kisses like this that are why I haven't bothered kissing anyone but him in over five years. Ones like this that make me feel mortifyingly like some moonstruck teenager and the flip side, ones that leave me certain I could blow my wad from them alone. A tongue tango with anyone else seems utterly insufficient, so really, what would be the point?

Peppering my neck with butterfly kisses, he sighs in my ear, "Take me upstairs." I obey without a word, because truthfully there's nothing on earth I would rather do.


	8. Gay Paree

  
Author's notes: I think my own love for Paris shows a little in this chapter. For those who were hoping for it, don't worry. The next chapter will be nauseatingly shmoopy. Probably the shmoopiest stuff I've written so far.  


* * *

**Michael's POV**

"Ho-ly SHIT!" I croak. 

"I think we're up to twenty-eight," Brian ribs. "Maybe we should make this a drinking game."

"Should I be offended that the coat closet got a more emphatic reaction than my mural?"

"I don't know. It _is_ a magnificent coat closet. Besides, while the mural is unquestionably pure genius, it's not really up Mikey's alley. There's not a single cape or spandex encased package on the whole fucking thing."

"Would you two cut him some slack?" Ben begs, knowing how uptight I've been. I feel like the ghost of David is hovering over this whole trip.

Brian opens his mouth, I'm sure to harass me some more, but Justin intervenes. "Come on. Let's go check and see which room Blake and Ted are going to use."

"Excuse us." He ruffles Justin's hair. "Little Lord Fauntleroy is in training to become hostess of the manor."

Once they're gone, Ben cups my face in his gentle hands, his demeanor soothing. "Michael, we're here to have a wonderful vacation together. There's nothing to be stressed out about."

"I just wish this could be _ours_ , you know? Special."

"And you think it can't be because you were here with somebody else first?" I nod, despondent. "That's not how it works. It's going to be special, ours, because we're doing it together. I'd done a bike ride for charity before, but the Liberty Ride…it was beyond special. I married the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with on that ride." His eyes water slightly, the corners crinkling as he smiles. "So what if you've strolled along the Seine before? _We've_ never done it. That's all that matters."

"Have I told you that I love you?"

"You have."

"Not enough," I conclude, kissing him in a way I hope will show how much.

"See? Paris is working its magic already," Emmett chirps, bouncing in.

"Ready to do some damage on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and the Champs Elysées?" Lyle pipes up, rarin' to go. Lyle's almost as much of a label queen as Brian. It makes sense. It's his family's business. Stern's Department Stores carry some pretty upscale merchandise.

Brian and Lyle are quite the pair. Watching them shop together is like watching Judy and Barbara performing "Happy Days are Here Again." Two virtuosos in a flawless duet. Poor Em. He tries jump in on harmony, but he reminds me of some of those pathetic American Idol contestants in the early auditions—convinced they're the next Mariah Carey when in actuality they sound more like Drew Carey. When he prances over to them with a pink and orange sequined muscle shirt he unearths, they nearly run screaming. It's a good thing there are eight of us. We need all sixteen hands to schlep the load of crap they bought back to the house. We could use sixteen new feet, too. I didn't even know it was possible to shop for that many hours straight.

Back at the manse (heh, I always wanted to talk like that), some butler guy takes all of our packages. I feel like we've stepped into a fucking episode of Dynasty or something. 

"I think we should all rest up before we hit the town tonight," Ted suggests.

"Rest up?" Brian exaggeratedly repeats. "O.k. You go 'rest up', Grandpa. Personally, I plan to work out until we leave." 

"There's a gym here too?" Blake's amazed.

Grinning mischievously, Justin informs him, "No. No gym."

"I don't need a gym to get my cardio, counselor," Brian clarifies, kneading Justin's shoulders. The two of them race up the stairs, obviously impatient to get their sweat on. So what else is new?

"Don't let him get to you, Teddy," I mutter in consolation. "Not everyone considers a day packed with shopping to be foreplay."

"Maybe not, but I do," Lyle growls in a floor shaking bass, dipping Emmett dramatically and kissing him fully. Em squeals with delight, dashing away exuberantly with Lyle in hot pursuit.

"Foreplay? It went a little beyond that," Blake laughs. "Didn't the two of them go at it in the dressing room at Jean Paul Gaultier?"

"And at Village Yoyo," Ted adds, moping. Really? I didn't know about that one. Who can keep up?

Blake consoles him. "They're not the only ones who've had a little fun in a dressing room, you know. Remember?" That milks a smile out of our little sour puss. Then in a whisper he adds, "You were so sexy." They walk away arm in arm.

"Come on. Let's go rest," Ben gently advocates, leading me upstairs.

"Fuck that. I want you naked before we get to the room," I demand, lifting his shirt as we climb.

Pleasantly surprised, he wonders, "So you were just lying to Ted to make him feel better?"

"Lying?" I ask with overtly phony purity. "I wasn't lying. I don't consider a day packed with shopping to be foreplay at all."

Playing along, he follows with, "And what _do_ you consider satisfying foreplay?"

Arriving at our room, I plant my hands in the center of his broad chest, shoving him forcefully down on the bed. "Let me demonstrate..."

********************

**Justin's POV**

I don't think I realized how much I love Paris until I got to present it to everyone. First my mom and Tucker came over with Deb and Carl, Cynthia and her latest boyfriend in tow. Then Jared, Alex, Daphne, Jess and Tony were here. Now the guys. And of course Brian. 

Setting our sightseeing goals for the next few days, Blake, chomping at the bit to do all of the requisite touristy shit, asks trepidatiously, "So, um, what have you two done already?"

Brian helpfully contributes, "Well, if you want the 'blow by blow', the first night I got here I fucked him unconscious. I thought he was going to rupture a nut when I…"

"Jesus, Brian. You know that's not what he meant," Michael whines. 

Ted and Emmett scold, "Don't stop him!" 

Afraid he'll continue, I jump in, "Let's just say we didn't really leave the house. All of the mandatory tourist traps are still on the agenda."

First, of course, is the Eiffel Tower. Personally I'm a little sick of it by now. It's my fourth trip in as many weeks. Besides, better views of the city can be had if you climb the stairs at Notre Dame, go up the Tour Montparnesse, or visit the top of the Arc de Triomphe. But I can hardly expect them all to skip Paris's most famous landmark. Brian's strangely perky about the outing. His reason becomes evident when he reminds me, "Don't forget, you made me a promise." 

Laughing, I remember. "I don't think it's going to happen at the top. At least not if we don't want to get arrested." Ever resourceful, however, he ferrets out a few niches on the second floor and holds me to my vow.

I again embrace the role of tour guide, introducing this latest crowd to my favorite spots. First stop is Montmarte Hill, where I've spent endless hours sipping coffees and sketching amongst a multitude of artists, staring out at the city from the steps of Sacré-Coeur, and milling around with the tourists at the art-nouveau metro station at Place des Abbesses. 

"Montmartre used to be a small village outside the Parisian walls, and was only integrated to Paris at the turn of the 19th century. The residents cherish it so much they vehemently fight to keep it authentic, to retain that 'old world' feel, which is why I love it. You have to see it here at night too, though. It's got a whole different personality."

"Skip the history lesson, Sunshine. The true beauty of the city lies not in the architecture, but in the hot Parisian men." Brian balks, following one said gentleman with his eyes. I've got to admit, it's hard to argue.

Next on the itinerary are a few museums, which gets a groan from Michael and Blake. "Trust me," I guarantee. Brian of course insists we start with the Musée de l'Erotisme. Although it's primarily geared to heteros, there's definitely a thing or two to grant a fag a stiffy. I don't think I've ever laughed as hard as when we arrive at the top floor and some guy outfitted in bondage attire is dancing around. Emmett grabs Ted and Michael and they join him, swiveling their hips and draping themselves all over him as visitors snap photos like paparazzi. 

Lacking quite the same entertainment value but rewarding nonetheless, I prove the more traditional museums offer just as much eroticism if you know where to look. After the obligatory stop at the Louvre, I bring them all to the Rodin Museum the Centre Pompidou, and finally to my church, the Musée d'Orsay. I absolutely love it here. Not only because of the collections, but because of the environment. There's nothing like it. Once I introduce the homo perspective to each locale, they each adopt a new appreciation for art. 

"Fuck the Mona Lisa. Museums are _full_ of beautiful men," I point out.

"Yes…they are that," Brian agrees, once again wolfing down some eye candy across the gallery.

Shaking my head, I explain, "That too. But I meant the art. They're packed with paintings and sculptures steeped in homoeroticism, glorifying the male physique."

"Like the naked guy at the loft!" Michael tosses out, and his sincerity throws us all into hysterics. Comic books and the naked guy. Not exactly the great masters.

Piloting them from piece to piece, passionately identifying the sensual elements gets me hard. So I drag an unreservedly willing Brian into the bathroom to lend me a hand…and a mouth. I swear, we've had more sex in public the one week he's been here than we did the past six months back home. No doubt it's earning Paris a special place in his libidinous heart. 

We experience the Marais during the day, in contrast to our clubbing there the first few evenings. Every time I venture over here, it reinforces my conviction that I could so live here. Branching off, we immediately lose Ben and Ted to Blue Books Paris and the bouquinistes along the Seine, Brian and Michael situate themselves at Open Café to order beverages and gab about nothing in particular while enjoying the scenery (the scenery being the gorgeous, young, gay clientele of course), Lyle and Emmett investigate shops along Rue Ste-Croix de-la-Bretonnerie, and Blake and I meander over to Place des Vosges and get better acquainted. We're in each others' company often enough, but I don't really know him that well. Since we're the two junior members of the gang, they're all convinced we have this "twink link" and could be BFF if we only gave it a chance. Probably by virtue of his profession, I find him really easy to talk to, and he's certainly pleasant to be around. But I can't say I feel a substantial bond with him. He's a little…vanilla. He makes Ted happy though (hardly an achievement to sneeze at, mind you). That's all I really care about.

On their third night, all the couples decide it's time for memory making romantic trysts and soak up the city individually. I, however, slip into my work clothes and renew my relationship with my brushes.

"You look hot," I tell Brian on his way out.

"And Debbie will never be mistaken for Jackie O. Any other obvious facts you'd like to severely understate?" Tell me that doesn't deserve the oh-please look I return. Strutting over to his coat, he adds, "Honestly, do I ever not?"

"Visions of you bowing to the porcelain god after radiation come to mind." Fair is fair. I now deserve the fuck-you-very-much look he returns to me. "You should check out Le Depot. You can try L'Impact, but be warned, it's one hundred percent nude. You have to check your clothes, so don't wear anything you'll queen out over if they lose."

"Aren't you the little sex club expert?" he comments, impressed. I think he's turned on at the idea I might have sampled them.

"I scoped out the scene with Jared and Alex." And only danced with some sizzling, aggressively grabby, humpy guys while the two of them darted away to get their rocks off. But I don't include that part.

"Work hard," he encourages.

Looking down I joke, "Good thought." Wiggling my eyebrows I propose, "Want to come over here and assist me?"

Avoiding me with his body so his clothes don't become my next canvass, he leans over to give me a quick peck. "Later. I'll wake you when I get home."

"Swear to regale me with all the gory details and I'll agree to suspend our 3:00 statute for tonight." 

"Gee, Ma. I can stay out past curfew? The other kids'll be so jealous!" he chirps jovially. 

Kicking him in the ass, I chuckle, "You're on vacation. Go have fun." 

Walking in on us, Michael sputters incredulously, "You're sending him to sex clubs? Alone?" 

Casually, in a futile attempt to end the conversation before it begins, I toss out, "I have to work on the mural if I'm ever going to finish." But he's staring at me like he thinks I lost my last friend in the world. "He got here two days before you, so it's been almost a week of twenty-four/seven togetherness. He's starting to get itchy. You had to notice last night at Le Raidd."

Of course he did. You couldn't miss it. I was convinced nothing was going to stop him from jumping into the plexiglass shower cube to join the perfectly formed dancer performing within. 

Empathetically he wonders, "Doesn't it bother you?"

"Not really." That poor-Justin face still confronts me. "I admit, every once in a while it gets under my skin. But I'm not threatened by it. I know Brian loves me. It's not like I'm concerned he might leave me for some hot ass he fucks at the baths."

"So how come you don't do it?"

"Who says I don't?" Poor-Justin face contorts into who-are-you-trying-to-kid face. I'm not going to get away with that one. "I don't want to." He's still skeptical. "He'd stop if I asked him to. But I never will. Not again. I did that before and it nearly killed us. I love him. I want him to be happy. You know as well as I do that for Brian that means feeding his pathological need to be King Kinney, idolized by hoards of worshiping subjects kneeling at his cock. Doesn't Ben have things that make him happy that you wish didn't?"

"It's not exactly the same thing."

"Yes it is." I insist. "Every couple has to deal with this shit, but with their own specific issues. You just have to decide for yourself what you're willing to accept and what you're not."

"I guess."

Calmly I reassure him, "I'm fine, Michael. This works for us." My tone definitively conveys that's my last word on the subject, as do my actions, which are to turn my back and begin to paint. 

Wanting to say more but realizing I'm not receptive, he simply walks away. I breathe a sigh of relief when he and Ben close the door behind them and I'm finally alone with my work again. I'm o.k. with it. I really am. But it sure as shit isn't something I want to ruminate over and analyze.

Somewhere around 5:30 a.m., Brian stumbles loudly into the room, kicking off his shoes and tossing his clothes on the floor, waking me from a sound slumber. Hurdling his laundry, he lands by me on the bed as I stretch, struggling to emerge from sleep. "Who says the French aren't friendly? I found them to be imminently hospitable."

"Mmmm hmmm." 

"You were right about Le Depot. And if you haven't seen the guys at La Scène Bastille, you're missing out. Shit. They must have some magic potion that tightens up their asses. You should look into that."

"I will if you will." He smiles at me as if to say "touché".

He looks completely blissed out. "I found _the_ hottest guy who gave me possibly the best blow job I ever had." Then, his face melting into a serious, sincere pout, he places his hand on my stomach, leaning over to kiss me sweetly. "With the obvious exception of yours, honey." 

Laughing but a little concerned, I place my hands on his cheeks, checking the state of his eyes. "Honey?! What the fuck did you take?"

He shrugs, making an I-dunno grunt. "French shit." Then his mind travels elsewhere. "Mmmmm. Honey. It would have been better with honey." Wiggling his eyebrows at me, he croons, "We know how to make the most of honey, don't we…honey?" Flopping back, he shakes with peals of laughter. What a goofball.

Rolling onto my side, my back to him, I reach behind me and pat his thigh, yawning, "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. G'night."

Palming my shoulder, he presses down, forcing me onto my back. "Don't you want me to show you my newly acquired skills?" he asks, oddly managing to whisper and yell simultaneously.

"Tomorrow. I'm really tired."

But when Brian wants to suck my dick, there's really no denying him. He uses his ample strength to hold me down, sloppily kissing my chest, his tongue creeping down my flesh on his way to my crotch. By the time he arrives, I'm hard, moist, and ready. But drunk and stoned, exhausted and giddy, he's atypically second-rate. Until he starts to do this…this… _thing_ with his tongue. Fuck. That's good. Fuck! Sucking my breath in sharply, arching my back, I try to focus so I can remember precisely what he's doing, determined to add it to my notable repertoire. It feels like…shit, I can't think, and a high pitched screech unconsciously escapes. What _is_ that he's doing? Jesus, it feels like…um, it feels like his head just dropped like a lead ball onto my abdomen. Tucking my chin to my chest, I look down with utter disbelief. No fucking way. Are you serious? He's passed out with my throbbing, needy dick between his lips. Charming. I reach down, dying to finish myself off, but I'm buried too deeply in his mouth and he's like a sleeping fucking elephant. I can barely move, maddeningly incapable of extracting my rigid cock. Initially I try to thrust, fucking his static orifice, but suddenly afraid that if I shoot I'll choke him in his sleep, I stop and close my eyes, thinking of Sally Struthers and those starving children. Of the hetero sex depictions at the Musée de l'Erotisme. Of Debbie. Anything to redirect my blood flow. It's just starting to work when, holy fucking shit, he begins to snore, the vibrations swiftly reversing my effective efforts. Dead puppies, Justin. Picture dead puppies. Or the seventy year old flabby, flatulent geezer we saw at the baths last summer. My mother. _Brian's_ mother. HELP! 

That last one does it. At least the bitch is good for something. Eventually flaccid enough to commandeer my dick, I sink back into sleep resolving that he soooooo fucking owes me. And not just a couple of blow jobs. Oh no. Something major. Unbefuckinglievably major.

Around the table the next morning at Le Deux Magots, hung over and slumped onto me, his head held up by my shoulder, Brian entertains us all with (embellished, I'm sure) stories of his recent conquests. A little big even for Kinney britches, I can't stop myself from knocking him down a peg by sharing the horror of his…faux pas when he got home. The result is such riotous laughter (none more so than Brian's) that the proprietors invite us to leave.

I join in on the merriment, but behind the innocent grin my cunning mind is in overdrive, patiently biding my time. Be assured, Mr. Kinney, the last laugh will be mine.


	9. Love is in the Air

  
Author's notes:

A more appropriate title for this chapter would be Smut and Shmoop. Starting out sort of pornalicious, it blossomed into possibly the shmoopiest chapter I've ever written! But hey, like a good chocolate binge, sometimes overindulging in shmoop can be a wonderful thing.

I'm leaving for vacation, so the next update will probably take a little longer than ususal. Hopefully the adventure will inspire some new ideas!

* * *

**Justin's POV**

It was great having the guys here, but I'm sort of glad they left this morning. This way I can put the finishing touches on the mural in time to fly home with Brian. He's working too, glued to the computer and the phone, terrorizing Adam about some work shit. The two of them actually operate really well as a team, and Adam definitely gives as good as he gets. I think that's why Brian respects him so much. 

"Très magnifique," I hear behind me.

"Thanks, Cecile. Do you think Mrs. Hiller will like it."

"I think she will love it." Standing there, though, she looks as if she might cry.

"Does something about it make you sad?" I can never predict what my work will evoke in people. I stare, trying to figure out what's mournful about it.

"Only that it's finished. Does this mean you and Monsieur Kinney will be leaving?" Nodding, I'm suddenly a little sad too. "We will miss you…Justin."

"I'll miss you guys too," I tell her honestly, hugging her as she stiffens. She may have finally mastered dropping the "Monsieur" with me, but I think she may not be quite ready for the hugging. This "staff" shit is so fucked.

"Jesus, leave you in Paris for a month with this devastating creature and you turn straight," Brian muses as he enters the foyer. I release Cecile and Brian places a hand on her shoulder, solemnly requesting, "All I ask is that you make sure he gets plenty of Yvette's croissants. If you're going to steal him from me, I want him to at least get very, very fat."

"Monsieur Kinney," she giggles coquettishly, blushing and flapping her hand in a oh-go-on-now gesture as she skitters away. Mmm hmm. I don't think it's me she wants, Brian. We may both cause mouths to water among fags, but he's head and shoulders above me when it comes to the straight women drool department.

Dropping his head, he kisses my neck. "I thought I'd check out that basement club. I have a taste for a little crème fraîche."

"You go. Don't forget, we have plans for tomorrow, so this is your last night of decadence."

Nibbling my ear, he urges, "Come on. How can you pass up the local delicacies? It's like going to Scotland and not having a wee nip of whiskey," the final words rolling out in a (very sexy) Scottish brogue. Honestly, I did think about it while waiting for Jared and Alex to finish their exploits. And truth be told there were some uniquely hot guys. Why not? Besides, I can wear some of the club clothes I splurged on the other day. Agreeing, I run upstairs to change.

When I reappear, he looks me up and down, licking his lips. "You're going to cause a feeding frenzy in that."

"You qualify as blood in the water yourself," I return, appreciatively fondling his ass.

"Shall we show these jokers how it's done?" 

"Let's do it."

The club is dark and hot, and it feels like we've discovered some secret underground treasure. The music is different but amazing, and the place is packed. We dance close (we have no choice), and rubbing up against him, breaking a sweat and smelling his scent as he does too, I snowball into horny as hell. Nuzzling his neck, sucking greedily as I crush my dick, hard as a diamond, into his thigh, I draw him into the same state. He assaults my mouth with his tongue, holding my face to his, his hand gripping the back of my neck with a strength that adds kindling to the fire already blazing in me. God, I just want to shove him against the wall and molest him right here. I can already feel the expanding dampness in my new, increasingly snug pants.

His voice clouded with desire, he suggests, "Let's share one of those local delicacies we were discussing."

At least I have my wits about me enough to insist, "We're _not_ bringing a trick back to the house." I can just imagine Cecile's face.

"Well then we can enjoy the local flavor in an authentic locale. I'm sure these fine gentlemen all have beds to sleep in. And fuck in." He spins me, pointing to a redhead against the bar.

I scrunch my face, deciding, "Too…Howdy Doody."

"Not Opie. The guy he's hitting on."

Oh. Better. "Nice. Should I go get him?"

"Permit me." Brian approaches him, whispering his magic words in the guy's ear. But in an unprecedented move, the guy nods no and says something I can't make out. Undaunted, Brian grins his patented predatory grin and cups the guy's "le service trios" and uses it like a trailer hitch to transport him to me as the redhead angrily watches on.

When they reach me, I shout above the music, "It didn't look like he was interested."

My remark is met with a what-world-do-you-live-in expression. "My new friend here doesn't speak English." Then smiling, he adds, "But fortunately he speaks the universal language of depravity." Indeed, he seems disposed to participating now, pressing against Brian's hand and salaciously ogling me. 

Andre's apartment can only be called quaint. Emmett would fucking love it. A little frilly for my taste, but well put together. Just like him. He's got a beautiful body. _Great_ ass. He pours us a shot before we get down to business, then directs us to the bedroom.

"Suck him off," Brian directs. He gets off on watching guys get blown by me for the first time. I give one hell of a blow job, and I usually produce a pretty drastic reaction. Our clothes are disposed of quickly, and we lay on the bed in a fallaciotic triangle (I think I might have just invented that term)--me sucking Andre, Andre on Brian, and Brian on me. Damn! This guy's a screamer. Brian seems pretty pleased himself as Andre is spurred on by my machinations, slipping his tongue around for some serious rimming action. After an extended sucking session, Brian suits up and plunges into that estimable ass as Andre takes a turn on my cock, while above his back I meet Brian mid-trick for a wet, vigorous kiss. Then a little figurative light bulb pops over my head. Is there any way in hell he'd do it? I circle the pair, running my hand down Brian's back, watching the muscles flex as he pounds away, pressing my lips against it to feel the intoxicating movement. I deposit my hungry cock along his crack, sliding it up and down, my legs reduced to gelatin.

"Let me," I implore in a whisper. 

Surprised hazel eyes encounter my propositioning ones. He'll happily bottom for me, especially since he uncovered my ability to fuck him and suck him at the same time. But never in public. Not even when "public" consists of one other person. Never.

"Does this fall under the auspices of what I owe you for the other night? How many times can I expect you to pull that one out?"

"You love it when I pull it out," I goad suggestively. "But this doesn't count. You're not getting off that easy."

He retorts, "Now Sunshine, you know how easily I get off."

Nobody knows better. "This isn't for me, though. It's for you. I really want you to feel what it's like." It's true, I do. I know what he likes. This will absolutely drive him wild. And this is my best chance of making it happen, when we're not in Pittsburgh or even New York where people know him, where word can spread.

He stares, one of those dead stares I can't read. Then he quietly folds over, laying his chest against Andre's back, offering me access. Entering him, I'm so fucking worked up I nearly shoot before I begin. My fingers dig into his hips as I satisfyingly inch inside. 

After ample adjustment, he urgently commands, "Fucking bury it in me." I comply to a resounding grunt, the muscles lining his tight channel rippling around me, and it's too much. I lose control, firing my load with gusto but thankfully only deflating slightly, a minor matter rectified in a heartbeat as his complimentary wails egg me on. Not that it takes much. It's not often I'm lucky enough to furnish Brian with a first in the fucking arena. His experience is so extensive, there really isn't much left to expose him to. Yes, it's happened before--I know I'm the first (the only) person he's ever truly made love with, and he told me I'm the only one he's ever let tie him up. But introducing Brian Kinney to a new sexual experience is such a rarity that it's a fantastically heady feeling. In both heads. 

********************

**Brian's POV**

I can't believe I'm letting him do this. That French weed must have been laced with something. But I figure who the fuck knows me here? And his unbridled mania when he's in this position definitely has me curious. 

Obeying my instructions to bury his cock inside me, he lurches forward, his balls slapping my ass, and I feel him unload on the first plunge, forcing a rumble from the back of my throat, sounding like a lion after the kill. I almost laugh when I feel him slide out and slam back in, fully equipped to continue faster than he can down a lemon bar. If you think about it, it's a legitimate miracle my life collided with that of the one person who's practically as virile as me.

I curve my back so he hits my sweet spot, and…oh my fucking god! My whole body reacts, the trick instantly responding, tightening around me, all three of us groaning in cacophonous harmony. Holy fucking shit! No wonder Justin becomes a lunatic. The trick slams his ass back against me in rapid succession just as Justin slows down, and the competing paces are almost enough to make me lose my mind. I reach back, clutching his thigh, straining to speed him up. Understanding, he sets his hands on my shoulders for leverage and just fucking drills me. The huffs of effort on his breath reach my ears as he reaches around to rub my pecs, my nipples hard as ball bearings. I begin the chain, coming with a vengeance inside Pierre (or whatever). My ass constricts and behind me I hear a gurgle, feel soft hair smashed between my shoulder blades, fingers creating indentations on my chest as his second emission bursts. I pull his arms tightly around me, holding them there as together we bring our new buddy to his conclusion.

Justin and I entwine into a kiss, pawing each other as if we can't get enough. Poor Pierre (…or Jean-Jacques…or whateverthefuck). It's pretty obvious that now we're done with him and would prefer that he promptly disappear. Even though it is his place. Unwilling to cease and desist, we ignore him and the guy just hovers, sweeping his hands over our skin as we try to climb inside one another.

Eventually we clothe ourselves and leave. The trick babbles on, it seems to request a return engagement. Fortunately Justin's picked up enough of the language to explain to him France will be in our rear-view mirror shortly. Au revior, Monsieur Hot Ass.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Our last day is spent doing our own thing. Justin travels around saying goodbye to Paris in his way while I embark on my own farewell tour--more shopping and a last visit to the saunas.

I was given strict instructions about when to be back, and I obliged. We shower and dress, and Justin emerges looking…fucking beautiful.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

"Ready for what?"

"To 'indulge a disgusting level of sentimentality'. I only agreed to postpone it, not let you off the hook."

"Everyone knows you can't expect to hold a fag to something he says when he's trying to get laid." He's not buying it. I sigh, "O.k. One night. _One_." Grabbing his ass, pulling him to me and grinding against him I add, "And you'd better make it worth my while."

I quickly realize he's orchestrated this evening to the last detail, as if he's been planning it since the day he knew we'd be here, researching it like it was a dissertation. Dusk is descending as we embark on our…god help me, our date. I guess it's pointless to deny it's anything other than that. For Christ's sake, did I really agree to this? The things I'll do for an exceptional fuck.

We saunter over to the Pont Neuf bridge, venturing out upon it for an enduring kiss with the picture postcard of the twinkling Paris night as our backdrop. I follow him down the flight of stairs behind Henri IV to the wharf. Waiting in the park, lined with century-old trees and offering a perfect view of the Seine and the Louvre, we board a boat and sail along the river. Somehow he even arranged for it to be chilly so he can huddle into me for warmth. Fine. I forfeit. When in Rome, I suppose. I wrap my arms around him as he uses me to rest against, exuberantly pointing out landmarks and jabbering on about them.

Our ride complete, he disembarks before me, standing on the bank under a street lamp. Helping a little old German lady ashore, I look up to catch him contentedly admiring the skyline. Wham! Every now and again when I'm not expecting it he'll catch my eye and it hits me like a bolt of electricity. Like the first time I laid eyes on him. Breath, gone. Here we are, years later, another country, another street lamp, but the exact same sucker punch sensation. Well, not exactly the same. Now it undeniably emanates more from my chest, my gut than my groin. But the force of it still knocks the fucking wind out of me.

"Monsieur?" The captain snaps me out of my reverie. I'm the last passenger left on the vessel and the poor guy just wants to get out of here and go home to bang his boyfriend. Or his wife. Whatever floats his boat (no pun intended).

As I approach him he tears his radiant gaze from the city and turns it to me, leaving me no option but to fully relinquish any minuscule delusion I might have retained that I can prevent this evening from becoming diabetic poison. Pressing the full length of myself against him, backing him up against the post, I sweep his hair from his brow, holding my face so close to his I can feel the soft puffs of air he exhales heat the cool air between us, my heart still thudding soundly from that jolt. He shivers, and I'm fairly certain it's not from the mild breeze. Helplessly under his spell, those eyes as blue and open as a cloudless sky holding me hostage, I'm engulfed in the boundless flood of adulation gushing towards me, consuming every bit of available oxygen. It's more than I can tolerate. Suffocating and exquisitely terrifying. In self preservation I breach the visual connection, closing the negligible space between us, touching my forehead to his, closing my eyes and bathing in the nearness of him. Fingers like silk ribbons delicately stroke my jaw in the heavy silence, broken only by our converged breaths. Even he knows words could only spoil this. Instead the supple pink pillows of his mouth make contact, his tongue painting his message on my lips as artfully as his brush ever did on canvass, the tip flitting in just slightly. I respond, opening my mouth enough to allow a bit more in with the next sweep, escorted by a sigh.

My arm slung around him, we glide as if on wheels to the dinner he's arranged at Au Vieux Paris on Ile de la Cité. He turns a deep crimson, justifiably embarrassed when the maître de lets it slip that he expressly booked table 106 so that our view is the bell towers of Notre Dame, dramatically lit and perfectly centered in our window. 

"How torturous is this for you?" he wonders sweetly, reaching across the table, playing with my fingers. He's so fucking happy the glow he casts far outshines the luminous views, and the grin it generates inside my body is all encompassing, radiating from somewhere in the core of me. The whole thing is straight out of some pathetic Harlequin Romance. By all rights I should be horrified. Appalled. Not gleaming like the platinum buckle on my new Versace belt. What the fuck. It can't hurt to be a dyke for one night. Right? 

Warmly I reply, "I'll live. Even if this cornier than singing Kumbaya around a campfire." The singing thought leads to another and I warn him, "But if a strolling viol…musician or some lackey selling roses comes over, I'm leaving."

"Nothing that hideous. I promise."

Corniness aside, it's magnificent. The ambiance, the view, the meal, the utterly orgasmic chocolate soufflé. The owner, Georges, even invites us to climb down to the "family" cellar and pick our own wine, the way it's done in a traditional French home.

Before returning to the estate, we take a detour to Place Furstemberg. Justin discovered it because Delacroix had his studio here. With the nearby abbey casting a historical aura, the area is quiet, isolated, and somewhat private. Wooden benches beckon beneath the trees, seemingly placed there specifically for lovers. We accept the invitation, sitting side by side, my arm cloaking his shoulders like a shawl. His fingertips fondle the collar of my coat and he peers up at me through his flaxen lashes with irresistibly contagious serenity in his gaze. There's no reason to remain other than to prolong the enchantment of the evening, but that seems as good a reason as any so I capture those fingertips in my hand, my mouth curled in a mild, inward smile. My neck bends as my lips softly brush his once, then twice, barely tangible but intensely palpable just the same. This time it's him slackening his lips to offer me more of his mouth. We linger as lights extinguish in surrounding windows like stars burning out, relishing the kind of ambrosial kisses that serve as the headliner, not merely the opening act or supporting player. At least until later. 

We take a pleasant yet indirect route as we wander back to the house, I think slightly apprehensive that arriving there will dissolve the magic that has us completely swept away in this Lifetime-movie-worthy escapade. 

At last in our room, I wait for him on the bed, flipping through his sketch pad he'd left sitting in the center. Clearly inspired, he's completed dozens of drawings representing all facets of the city, one in particular that's stunningly beautiful. "Obsessing over some of Rodin's bronze gods we saw the other day?" I taunt.

He pops his head through the bathroom door, peeking to see what I'm referring to. "No, that's you," he claims matter-of-factly, disappearing back into the bathroom.

"Don't worry. You're going to get lucky. You don't have to feed me some cheesy line."

Passing through the door he declares, "It's not a line. It's you. I drew it last night while you were sleeping."

He's serious. I stare at it more intently. Let's be honest, I'm not exactly humble about my looks, but I'm utterly bowled over by this. This is how he sees me. What I am in his eyes. It's overwhelming. I guess he has them too--jolts like I experienced earlier on the wharf. He says he loves me fairly frequently. But words come easy to him (a little too easily more often than not). Yet without a single one, this makes me feel it so much more plausibly than any verbal declaration.

He settles behind me, his legs on either side of mine, and rests his chin on my shoulder. "It's my favorite one I've done of you."

How do you mark the precise inception of love making? Is it a kiss? Or before that? A touch or perhaps just a glance that carries the signals you both recognize as meaning I want to cherish every part of you, body and soul. I think that's it. Because no matter what follows, this moment, the transcendent moment of initiation, is absolutely unequalled. 

I twist to hold him, my hand finding his, fingers oozing between each other like putty, his body forming instinctively to mine, and we sink back against the plentiful down pillows like we're falling into a cloud. Everything moves in slow motion so we can immerse ourselves in it, marinate in it, treasure it until it concludes in a surge of unadulterated joy. And a restorative sense of peace.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Once we're en route, the realization that we're headed home hits him. "I can't believe it's over."

I can't resist, reciting dramatically, "We'll always have Paris."

He chuckles. "You shouldn't have wasted miles on the upgrade. You could have used them to go see Gus." But I note he's not too averse to it as he lifts the arm between our seats, scooting closer to me and spreading a blanket over us both.

"It's much more comfortable to do this here than in coach," I suggest, unzipping his fly under the blanket and grabbing his cock.

"Brian!" he gasps, trying unsuccessfully to remove my hand.

"Welcome to the friendly skies," I state, stroking slowly. He struggles briefly, but then gives in to the pleasure. Up front, the hot flight attendant looks on knowingly, a bulge noticeably growing in his own pants. Justin's panting as softly as he's able, his pelvis thrusting forward in rhythm as he closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into my shoulder. If he rips this fucking shirt… "This way," I order, standing. Using me to hide his…situation, he follows me comically closely to the bathroom where I proceed to renew my membership in the mile high club.

Back in our seats he conks out, his legs curled over mine, his head against my chest, the entire left side of my body eventually void of sensation from the weight of him. Why the fuck did we even bother to buy him his own seat? I try to work on my laptop, but with only my right side available it's not working out very well. Instead I close my eyes, last night replaying in my head like a favorite film. It spawns a germ of a thought that, by the time they announce preparation for landing, has evolved into a fully constructed decision.

As he rubs his eyes and stretches, I inform him, "I know how I can make up for the lamentable position I left you in the other night."

"Really? I can't wait to hear this."

"I'm not telling you yet, in case I…in case it doesn't work out. You have to trust me. And be patient."

"Ha! And you have some swamp land in Florida you'd like to sell me I'm sure. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I mean it." He infers from my tone and the fact that I passed on the perfect set-up that I do.

He stews briefly, repeatedly shifting his eyes to me and then away. Resolved, he agrees, "O.k. But _I_ am the sole judge of whether or not it's sufficient. If I don't consider it…"

"You will," I insist, unwaveringly confident. "You will." 


	10. Back to the Future

  
Author's notes: I'm back. I spent the entire plane ride there and back writing this chapter...BY HAND. I'd nearly forgotten how that whole pen/paper thing works. Man, it's slow! Thanks for your patience waiting for this update!  


* * *

**Justin's POV**

Surfacing from the bowels of the city, I emerge from the subway at Christopher Street and Sheridan Square, on the way from my meeting with Gregory to the coffee shop on the first floor of our building. I'm supposed to hook up with Daphne, and as I scurry along random thoughts duck in and out of my head. For example, how weird it is when you're away, whether it be for a week, a month like I just was in Paris, or several months like when I went to L.A., you return and before you know it you flow right back into your regular life like the whole thing never happened, an errant little blip easily corrected.

Daphne's already waiting for me at Buzz, leaping up and tackling me as I enter. Before I can even get my coat off she's hammering me with questions. "So…how'd it go? Did everything work out like we planned? Did he freak? Was it amazing? Come on! Tell me!"

I laugh, "I will, if you let me get a word in edgewise." Placing her hands satirically over her mouth, she sits and waits, bouncing slightly in her chair. Just to torture her, I remove my hat with exaggerated sloth. Fold it. Place it on the table. Finger by finger pluck the gloves from my hand. Smooth them. Set them down. Undo a button on my coat. Then another.

"JUSTIN!!!" she screams loud enough to hijack the attention of every patron in the shop. This is too fun. 

"It was…indescribable."

"Oh my god! He actually went for it?" I nod, smiling brightly. "Fuck indescribable…DESCRIBE IT!"

"O.k., o.k. First of all, he totally didn't freak. Not at all. Not even the little bit he wanted me to think he did." She snorts, knowing him well enough to understand exactly what I'm talking about. "At the beginning I could tell he was just humoring me, but in a good way. I mean, he wasn't being all…Brian about it or anything. Before we went down to the wharf to take the Seine cruise, we made out on the bridge for a while. And then something happened. I have no fucking idea what it was, but when he got off the boat it was like…um…I don't know. He was different. Like he was when he proposed, or at my mom's wedding. He backed me against this post and looked at me like…sort of like…" My stomach is getting all fluttery from the memory, and I'm wracking my brain trying to figure out a way to paint a picture that truly captures it.

"Like he did at the prom," she suggests dreamily.

"I guess. Maybe. I think it was kind of like you said that was." 

She sighs enviously. "So what happened next?" 

"We went to dinner."

"Did Georges give you the table?"

"Uh huh. And took us down to the wine cellar. Everything just the way we discussed it. Afterwards we walked over to Place Furstemberg and kissed for, like, ever." 

Nearly whining, she asks, "On the benches under the trees?" I nod. "I'm so jealous I can hardly stand it!"

"Then we went back to the house made love all night long."

"It's not fair! Not only is the guy you lost your virginity to the fuck of your life, he's the love of your life too. That doesn't happen! Do you realize that doesn't happen? Do you have the slightest idea how lucky you are that those are even the same person for you?"

Poor Daph. "It's not getting better?" I empathize. 

"God damned Lucius. He's completely ruined me for anyone else." She broke up with him when he went back to Palermo just before the holidays, but she was over him anyway. He was fantastic in bed, and a really sweet, gentle, considerate guy…but boring as hell. Now she's seeing this third year guy from her program, Zack, and she's really falling for him. Unfortunately, while he's hot, the sex isn't. He was so academically focused his whole life that he was still a virgin before they fucked, and he's apparently not a natural. And now that she's experienced a truly gifted lover, it's depressing to wade in the other end of the talent pool. I can sympathize.

"Give him time. He just has to learn. Teach him." Shit. I'd hate to tell her how bad she was her first time. Although it _is_ unreasonable for me to judge. I can't imagine I'd rank anyone with a vagina too highly.

"I've got it! I'll ask him to have a threesome with me and some guy who really knows what he's doing. An up close, hands on lesson!" 

We laugh, but I think she's almost serious. However, it reminds me…"I forgot to tell you. The night before the date, Brian and I had a threesome with this incredibly hot French guy."

"You slut!"

"He had the best body, Daph. And he definitely knew how to suck a dick. I even…" Nah, I don't want to tell her my favorite part. That's for me and Brian. "It was so fucking hot. The only thing that sort of broke the mood was that the whole time he kept screaming, 'Oui, oui, oui.' It sounded like he was seriously into water sports."

"EWWWWW! Gross," she shudders. We burst into hysterics.

"Uh oh. This sounds like trouble," Brian remarks, approaching the table. He gives Daphne a kiss on the cheek and me one on the lips before he drops into an empty chair, removing his coat and tossing his gloves and cell phone onto the table.

"Bon jour," Daphne chirps. "Justin's just filling me in on your adventure."

"I didn't realize it was so amusing," he teases, giving me a little shove as he gets up and heads for the counter to get a latté. 

"Have I missed anything exciting here?" I ask her.

"How should I know? Unless it has to do with common pathological presentations, I'm not up on it. I can't wait to get to rotations. My brain is too full. It can't absorb one more tiny little fact!"

"I'm sure your future patients would be thrilled to hear that."

Brian's phone begins to dance on the table and I grab it to check if it's Michael. I need to review some Rage shit with him. Nope. I'm about to notify Brian, but then the actual caller's name registers. My heart plunges to the floor.

"Justin?" Daphne asks, worried. "Who is it? What's wrong?"

"Nobody." Yeah, nice try. I never could hide my reactions very well. Especially not from her. I grab my pencil and scribble the number on my napkin. 

"If 'nobody' makes the blood drain from your face like that, I'd hate to see what would happen if it was somebody."

Brian returns with his coffee, collapsing into his chair. Sensing my hard, cold eyes on him, he turns to Daphne questioningly. She shrugs. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks. I can't even answer. Instead I give him a dose of his own medicine. A flat, expressionless stare. "Jesus, I was gone for less than two minutes. That's quite a mood swing. Is it your time of the month?"

"Is there something you want to say to me?"

Of course he's got no fucking clue what I'm talking about, so typical Brian, he shoots back sarcastically, "You look lovely today, dear. Did you get your hair done? Or is that a new dress? It brings out your eyes. Am I getting close?"

If he only knew how not in the mood for his bullshit I am at the moment. Daphne, uncomfortable and discerning it would be wise to extract herself from the situation, makes her excuses and takes off. 

My eyes never leave him. Never even blink. Once Daphne's gone, he looks at me with raised eyebrows, inviting me to get on with it. So cold and clipped, I demand to know, "Who the fuck is Norman Rosenberg, M.D.?"

His face takes on the specter of a thief caught red handed, but he replies off-handedly, "Never heard of him." O.k. The fact that he's obviously hiding something is making me even more nervous.

"He's evidently heard of you." I slide his cell phone across the table to him.

Glibly he spouts, "My reputation precedes me."

Half panicked, half livid I tell him firmly, "If there's something wrong and you're keeping it from me again..." But I don't know how to finish the statement. I don't know what I'd do. Except lose it. 

"There's not," he insists. "I just made a call to a medical practice for some information. This must be who they had return it. That's all." Then he caps it off with an, "I swear." I'm still skeptical. If that was it, why the dread when I asked who this guy is? "But I do have to call him back." 

He moves to get up and suspicious, I inform him, "The signal here is plenty strong."

"It's for a new campaign, and my notes are upstairs." Kissing the top of my head, smoothing down my hair he says, "Relax. I'm fine. I'll be right back." 

The instant he's out of sight, I pull out my own phone and dial the number. "Doctor Rosenberg's office. How may I help you?"

"Yes. Can you tell me what Dr. Rosenberg's specialty is?"

"Certainly. Infectious diseases."

"I see. Thank you." Infectious diseases? The first thing we did when we got back was get tested and we got our results already. It can't be that. Besides, he'd never have something transmittable and not tell me. That much I know for sure. Thinking harder I do recall that Remson's got some new drug he's got to promote. Maybe that really is all it is. It doesn't explain his shady behavior, but the rest fits. My nerves begin to calm. I suppose I believe him. I just hope I'm not being blind because of how badly I _want_ to believe.

*************************

**Brian's POV**

Jogging down the stairs, I shake my head at the timing of that fucking call. Couldn't have planned it worse if I tried. I hope I convinced him. I don't want to tell him what it was about…not yet…but I hate to think that he's upset because of it. As I push through the glass door, I see some troll standing at our table talking to him, all giggly and fidgety, his eyes as reverent as Ted's when he looks at our profit statements (particularly now that his compensation package includes a percentage). I ease back into my chair without disturbing the interchange, but the evil eye zooms towards me anyway. I've clearly burst this admirer's little bubble with my presence.

"Anyway, I'm glad you're back," he tells Justin.

"Thanks, Oscar."

There's an awkward pause, the guy shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and then he stutters, "O.k….um…bye." He walks away, turning back to see if Justin's watching, but he's not. The chit chat already forgotten, I've unfortunately regained his full attention.

"Did you get the answers you needed?"

I nod, although that's not one hundred percent accurate. What I got was the answer I wanted. Not in the least interested but determined to distract him, I ask, "Who's that guy?"

"What guy?"

"The one who's shooting daggers at me from across the room." After he left us, the delightful fellow took a seat alone on the other side of Buzz, watching us like he's Jane Goodall and we're a couple of chimps.

Sneaking a peek, he tosses out, "Oh. Oscar? He's just some art scene fairy. He's turns up at all of my shows."

"A genuine Justin Taylor groupie. What do you know," I rib.

"Maybe I'll make him president of my fan club."

"So including your mom that makes two members." He slaps me with the back of his hand.

"I'm starving."

"I'll alert the media."

"Want to go to Nelly's?"

"Let's just go upstairs and order from Siam Princess. I've got a shitload of work to catch up on."

As we exit, I can feel his devotee's eyes following us. Sorry, pal. This little rock star won't be taking you home tonight.

*************************

**Justin's POV**

Wiggling my ass a bit to assess the new seating, I declare, "You were right."

"When are you going to stop forgetting I always am?"

"You have to admit, given their appearance my resistance was reasonable," I defend. Our new Konstantin Grcic Miura stools were the subject of a lengthy debate. I bitched that Brian always prioritizes form over function, every last item in the place having to fit his finicky sense of style, and he held firm that good design provides both. As an artist I can appreciate that conceptually, but in reality it's not so easy to achieve. I shouldn't have doubted him though. Everything he selects ends up being comfortable despite the fact that visually it seems the contrary. 

"I didn't even know Langly was coming by with them today. How'd he get in?"

"By putting one foot in front of the other."

I give him a you're-not-funny sneer. "You came home? You should have told me. I could have been here. You didn't have to take time from work now, when you're so busy."

"I had something else to arrange with him."

"Jesus. What did you buy now?" He casually kisses my cheek, his shoulders slyly twitching in response, and strolls over to the desk. I'm wondering if I should be dreading whatever it is. Tossing all of the cardboard containers in the trash and clearing our plates, I hear the familiar click of the lighter. "You know, that's your third cigarette since we came upstairs."

"Thanks. I'd lost count. So glad one of us is keeping track."

"Brian…"

"What?" he snips, his inflection warning me to watch my step.

I don't care. "Don't you think you should at least cut down?"

"Is that your way of saying I need to trim my pubes?"

"You know what I mean. Christ, Brian, your father died of lung cancer. In his _fifties_. And you've already been through one bout of cancer yourself. Would you really want to go through that again…next time with a type that doesn't have anywhere near a 99% survival rate?"

"If your argument is that by smoking I'll never grow old, you're only motivating me to increase my consumption, not the opposite," he jokes, but my wince at the comment immediately conveys it was the wrong thing to say. "I won't actively avoiding dying by not living." He pulls me to him, biting his bottom lip and sliding his hand down the front of my pants. "What do you say we do some of that living right now?"

I duck, stepping back. "So chain smoking is synonymous with living to you?"

"You're not exactly a non-smoker yourself."

"I know," I reply guiltily. "Why don't we quit together?"

"The couple that has nic fits together stays together?" he mocks. "Enough of the nagging housewife routine," he commands, turning and heading towards the bedroom.

I grab his arm, spinning him back to face me. I know his tricks, and I'm not giving him a pass on this one. "No. You're not getting out of this conversation by taking a shower or fucking me."

Resignation washes over his face as he sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Squinting at me through the tops of his eyes he surmises, "Is this about that phone call from the doctor?" I just swallow. Taking me by the shoulders, he locks his eyes to mine. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"It was just research. There's nothing wrong with me. I would tell you if…I promise I won't do that to you again. And now we're done with this subject." I release a puff of submission, and we punctuate it with a tender kiss.

Ensuring the topic change, he asks, "How'd it go with Gregory?"

"Fine. He's itching for me to churn out some new stuff. I got the whole 'strike while the iron's hot' spiel. By the way, have you seen my sketch pad? I want to do a series based on my drawings from Paris."

His lips roll in and he hesitates before offering, "I think it's in the bedroom." 

I walk in, searching, and it takes a moment before I see them. I can't believe I hadn't noticed them as soon as we came in. The new neon sculptural thing he'd spend six months selecting has disappeared from over the bed, and hanging in its place are two new beautifully matted and framed pieces—one the sketch I did of him in Paris, my favorite one, and next to it the first one I did of him from the GLC. Where the hell has that been hiding? My heart does a little cartwheel as he sneaks up behind me, his lips against my ear, commending, "You've improved."

Grinning, reaching back to pet his cheek, I respond, "So have you." He chuckles, slipping his arms around my waist. "Langly took care of this pretty fucking quickly."

"It's remarkable how money can enhance one's productivity." My hand seeks out his and I lure him toward the bathroom. "I take it I'm allowed to take a shower or fuck you now."

Facing him, I drag him in reverse to our marble oasis and reply, "Only if you do both at the same time."


	11. A Pox on Your House

**Justin's POV**

With our first step in the door, Brian whines, "I want to be out of here in less than an hour. I swear to god, you browse in D'Agostino like I do in Barney's." 

"We're just picking up some stuff for dinner. Besides, you didn't have to come with me."

"And risk you filling the apartment with refined sugars and saturated fats?"

"I can't help it if I can eat whatever I want and still maintain my perfect twink physique."

"That's because you burn so many calories endlessly exercising your mouth."

"And aren't you glad about that?" I point out, giving him a quick, covert squeeze between the legs. "I'm going to grab some broccoli. Do you want anything else from the produce section?"

"Get a mango," he requests.

"Uh uh. You come get your own. I don't want to hear you gripe all night about how I can't pick them out for shit."

"I'm going to get the salmon. Just squeeze them. It should feel supple, like when you squeeze your balls." I'd love to know one thing this man can't bring back to the topic of sex.

I fondle at least a dozen mangos, laughing under my breath as I catch myself unconsciously comparing them to the feel to my balls. All of a sudden, someone shoves one under my nose. "This one's good."

"Huh? Oh…Oscar. Hi."

"You love mangos too? They're my favorite fruit!"

"They're o.k. My boyfriend's the one who always wants them."

"Oh," he responds, disappointed. "Is that the guy from Buzz the other day? I've seen him at your shows." I nod slowly. "Have you been together long?"

"Almost seven years."

"Seven years?" He nearly chokes on the words. "You must have been, like, fifteen."

"Seventeen," I divulge, but my voice is slightly tense. He's starting to get a little personal. 

Sensing my discomfort, he stops the line of questioning. "So have you started painting again since you've been back? I'll bet tons of galleries are banging down your door."

"I've been playing around with some ideas. I haven't gotten enough together for a show or anything though. However, I assure you our door is still hanging quite securely." I put a little emphasis on the "our" part, hoping he gets it. I can tell by his face that the inflection isn't lost on him.

He comments, "I guess it would be. _That_ thing…it would take a tank to…"

Brian's voice booms across the aisle, "How long does it take to pick one fucking mango? Are you standing there touching yourself to…" He winds down when he gets to me and sees Oscar.

"How's this one?" I challenge, handing him the mango Oscar selected.

"This one feels about right."

"You can thank Oscar. Oscar, this is my boyfriend, Brian. Brian, Oscar. You two have something in common."

"Really?"

"Your favorite fruit."

Biting my ear, he growls, "You're my favorite fruit." Then, to Oscar, he prods, "Yours too? What a coincidence." My hands snap up to cover my reddening face. He _had_ to go there. "Are we ready?" he asks me.

"Yup," I quickly reply, pulling him away before he creates any more awkwardness. Over my shoulder I call, "Bye, Oscar. See you soon."

"Right. Soon," he stammers hopefully.

"You're sooooo mean," I charge. "He obviously wants to be friends or something."

Huffing a laugh, he asserts, "Or something? What he 'obviously wants' is your dick down his throat."

"So do you have to embarrass him like that? He's already…so…"

"Pathetic?" Brian helpfully finishes.

I throw him a that's-not-necessary glare, although it's exactly what I was thinking myself. "It's tough being irresistible," I state playfully.

"Look who you're telling," he snickers.

"This is true," I admit, lifting up on my toes to kiss him, a kiss that proves he's exactly that to me.

"How about you two clean each others' teeth after you pay," grumbles the guy behind us, nodding towards the available, waiting cashier.

"Groceries make him horny," Brian conspiratorially whispers and I bury my face in my hands yet again. "Why, Sunshine, you're blushing," he sings.

Softly, I taunt him, "If you keep making all my blood rush to my face, there won't be any left to go where you prefer it."

Considering that for a moment, he nods. "Good point. You've bought yourself a reprieve."

"And $29.90 worth of aphrodisiac," deadpans the cashier, her palm up and stretched out towards us, a bored sneer on her face. "Next."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sprawled out on the sofa, my time with Graham Norton is interrupted by the ring of the phone. "I got it," I announce.

"Hey, Michael," I chirp, glancing at the caller ID. "What's up?"

"Hey, Justin. Have you ever had chicken pox?"

Uh, random question. Tentatively I reveal, "Yeah. When I was seven."

"Awesome!"

"It is? If you say so."

"Well, I know Brian had them."

"Yipee. Are we forming a club?"

"No. Hunter has them, and they're kicking him out of the dorm so he doesn't infect everyone. He can't come home because it's too dangerous for Ben. I thought maybe he could stay at your place." 

When am I going to stop answering questions BEFORE I know what's being asked of me? Still, saying no isn't even an option, so what's the difference? "After the way you and Ben were there for me when I needed it, you don't even have to ask." Of course, Brian's going to shit a brick.

"That's a big relief. Thanks, Justin. Really, thank you so much."

"Shit," I hear coming from the desk as I hang up. "What did you just get us into?"

I hang up, walk over to him, cross my arms, brace myself and assert, "Hunter's staying with us for a few days."

"The fuck he is."

"He's got chicken pox. He can't stay in the dorms, and he can't go back to Pittsburgh and jeopardize Ben's health." 

"How exactly does that become my problem?" A stare down ensues. Then he snarls, "Because they offered _you_ a safe haven when you fled to the Stepford Sanctuary? Well, _I_ certainly don't owe them shit for that." I know the anger in his voice is only masking the pain he still feels about me leaving back then. Why the fuck did I have to bring that up? He's right. My mouth is in better shape from constant motion than Lance Armstrong's legs. Verbal diarrhea is a terrible thing.

The edge melting from my tone, I voice what we both already know. "Because he's Michael's family, which makes him your family. So we're doing it, which, I might add, I'm not any happier about than you are." He begins to launch into another argument, but I cut him off. "To quote you, 'now we're done with this topic.'" Let the fun begin.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Stop scratching. That's how you wind up with scars," I warn, placing a bowl of soup on the side table."

Continuing to claw at his skin, he bites back, "What the fuck do you care if I end up scarred?"

"You're right. I don't." Pissant. "Listen, Brian and I aren't Michael and Ben. Don't hold your breath waiting to be smothered by warm fuzzies."

"I figured that out this morning when I asked for some water and Brian beaned me in the head with a bottle. He has all the nurturing instincts of Joan Crawford."

Ungrateful little shit. Although it is true Brian queens out if I dare put his clothes on a wire hanger. "You have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"Right. He's really Mother Teresa, only he's cleverly disguised himself as Ebenezer Scrooge."

"You know what? You don't know the first thing about who Brian is." He makes a sarcastic whatever-you-say face. That's it. "I'm going out. If you need anything else, get off your ass and get it yourself."

As I storm out, I hear him mumble under his breath, "What the fuck did I say?"

*************************

**Brian's POV**

I put off coming home as long as I could. But sitting with Adam at Wet Willy's, I finally got pissed. Hustler Boy isn't going to dictate my actions. Besides, there's something about the kid's spunk I like (for once I'm not speaking sexually).

I enter the apartment, hang up my coat, toss the mail down, and fix myself a drink. I look around, annoyed at the fact that the panels on both our room and Gus's room are swiveled shut to create private, closed off spaces. It makes me feel claustrophobic. Or as claustrophobic as one can feel in a couple of thousand square feet. Sighing, I stretch out on the sofa and open the paper.

Realizing I have no plans to grace him with my presence, he calls out, "Uh… _hello_." 

I suppose I should respond. I pop my head in the doorway. "Where's Justin?"

"A little better, thanks for asking." I roll my eyes to exhibit how deeply I care. "Your boy toy took off. Something I said apparently. He's awfully touchy." Then, his voice, posture and expression shift to something I think is supposed to be alluring. He croons, "He probably won't be back for hours," patting the bed next to himself. Wiggling his eyebrows, he boasts, "Remember what I told you? No gag reflex…whatsoever."

Is he kidding me with this shit? "I thought life with the tedious twosome had scared you straight."

"Straight, not dead. Anyway, I consider myself non-discriminating."

"So you're an equal opportunity fucker? Well, sorry Lolita, but I'm not tempted in the least by diseased ass." His face caves and I'm struck by how that came out. Fuck. Stepping into the room, I gently stammer, "I didn't mean…I meant the chicken pox."

"Yeah, I know," he solemnly assures me. I don't know if it really rolled right off of him or if it's a façade to hide the hurt (gee, what would I know about that?), but he flows right back into doing his level best to get a rise out of me (in more ways than one). He goads, "I see what it is. You're one of those alpha males who needs to be the predator. Somebody comes after you and you head for the hills." 

This kid cracks me up. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

Still attempting to look enticing but instead achieving a constipated squint, he presses, "It's starting to make sense why you're with that blonde…doormat. He couldn't even emulate a ferocious kitten on a bet, let alone in bed." Now he's really given me a good belly laugh. "Hey, but that's cool. I can do passive."

"You clearly don't know Justin very well."

"Please. You want me to believe little 'Sunshine' has a dark side?" 

"You don't think so? My advice, don't piss him off if you don't want to find out." 

"So Ben was right."

"About what?"

"He said that contrary to what people might think, you have the bark but it's Justin who has the real bite."

What the fuck? Asshole. "You can tell Zen Ben that 'contrary' to his worthless opinion, my bite can be fucking fatal, so he'd be wise to amend his theory," I bark. 

In another ridiculous attempt to be lascivious, he suggests, "If you're into biting..."

Chuckling, I leave and turn my attention back to the paper. 

********************

**Michael's POV**

"I feel bad." After only two days I could hear the frustration in both Brian's and Justin's voices, so I proposed that I come up and take care of Hunter myself. I didn't really think about the logistics though. "I feel like I'm kicking you out of your own house."

"That's because you are," Brian so kindly states. "Look, just make like Clara Barton and nurse the boy back to health so he can get back to his cell."

"We'll be fine at the lair for a few days. Don't worry about it," Justin offers.

They turn to leave and I catch them at the door. "Don't forget your bags."

"We don't need any," Justin informs me.

"You don't really need clothing when you fuck TWENTY-FOUR GOD DAMNED SEVEN," screams the annoyed patient in the other room.

Brian snorts as Justin explains, "We have clothes and anything else we need over there."

As they exit, I make my way to Hunter's room. "Don't be so fucking rude. They're really going out of their way to do us a favor."

"Some favor. Sick people are supposed to get plenty of rest. Who can sleep here? There's less fucking in porno flicks than there is in this apartment. Quieter fucking too."

"Stop exaggerating." He raises his eyebrows, intimating that he's not. "They've been together seven years. Nobody fucks that much after seven years. At least not each other." Of course, remembering Paris, I can't really state that with conviction. 

"I don't think they're going to fall victim to the seven year itch. They scratch way to often. They're not all settled in and cozy like you and Ben."

Hey! "We still fuck plenty!"

"I'm just saying, judging by the sound effects, you guys aren't even engaging in the same activity."

"Take your fucking medicine," I snap, slamming it down on the night table. I think I'm beginning to understand why they were so quick to grab the life preserver I threw out.

"Geez. You're as touchy as the Picasso wannabe."

"Justin? What do you mean?"

"He got so pissed off because I made some comment about Nurse Ratched's…"

"Brian?" I sternly interject.

Rolling his eyes, he moans, "I forgot. A fellow Kinney worshiper."

Defensively I snipe, "I don't worship him. We're best friends. You have no idea…" I stop to take a calming breath and espouse, "When Justin was attacked, Brian did _everything_ to take care of him. Anything it took to get him better, not just physically but emotionally. Even Justin's mom couldn't handle it. Brian was the only one. He was going through some serious shit of his own about what happened that night, but he was there for Justin. He took him in, he was patient, gentle, strong. Whatever Justin needed."

"Fine. He's Mr. Wonderful for his precious blue eyed angel," he spits. _I'm_ the Kinney worshiper? I recognize the symptoms all too well. What do they call that? Projection, right? 

"Don't get me wrong. Brian can be a bigger asshole than anyone on earth. But he can also be…when they killed Captain Astro, everybody else made me feel like shit for caring so much. But Brian understood. He told me I had every right to feel like I did, and he let me grieve no matter how stupid other people might think it was. And the times Ben's been in the hospital, he drops everything to be there for me, no matter what. Ben told me that after the bomb, Brian nearly clocked some doctor who wouldn't let him donate blood for me, even though I wasn't even talking to him at the time. Even though I told him we weren't friends anymore. And for Emmett, he forced him to face reality when Ted was sliding down to rock bottom, and then when Ted climbed back up, he didn't just spew supportive clichés like most people. He gave him a job. Brian may not fit everybody else's definition of 'caring', but he takes care of the people who are important to him better than just about anyone. He can be Florence fucking Nightingale if the people who matter to him are really hurting."

"Guess that excludes me," he mumbles sadly.

"Thanks for inviting me to the pity party," I tease. He mopes. "Look, I know this sucks, but you're just itchy. Uncomfortable. It's hardly terminal. If this was serious he'd be…different. And you don't exactly help with all the attitude. Now get some sleep. The sooner you can go back to the dorms, the happier I think we'll all be."

"Finally something we agree on."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Mission accomplished," I announce as I slide into the booth. "Hunter is tucked away in his own room."

"Great. We'll have our place disinfected this afternoon and then head home," Brian ribs as I smirk.

"I'll be happy to get home too. I hope Emmett kept the store relatively operational. You wouldn't believe how many calls I've been getting to order copies of Rage all of a sudden," I excitedly tell Justin.

"Already? Gregory told me that might happen as collectors start to know my name and connect me with the comic," he replies gleefully.

"I didn't even think of that. I guess I should up our quantities on the next order."

"Don't," Brian interjects. We both look at him, confused. "Simple law of supply and demand. The harder something is to come by, the more people want it…and the more they're willing to shell out for it. Think about it. How did you get the seed money for the store, Mikey?"

Holy shit! "Do you really think Rage could end up as valuable as that?"

"Maybe more. After all, Captain Astro wasn't illustrated by a rising star in the art world," he drawls dramatically with a silly voice, teasingly pinching Justin's chest. "Not to mention the controversy it's bound to stir up as it works its way into public consciousness."

"Captain Astro was gay too," I point out.

Justin reminds me, "It was never blatant, only implied. And it sure as hell was never as raw, as unapologetic as Rage. Galaxy Lad never blew him on the cover."

"And he never looked as good in..or out of spandex," Brian boasts.

"I knew I never should have agreed to that! They'll probably put it behind brown paper or ban it or something."

"We can only hope!"

He's serious. "All I ever wanted was for Rage to be a positive figure for kids who need a hero. I want him to be…"

"What? Sanitized? That's not giving them an HONEST hero. Rage lets them know they can be gay, be sexual, and that it's nothing to hide or be ashamed of."

"I hate to interrupt you when you're on one of your little activist rants, Miss Fonda, but don't you have an appointment with Bernard?" Brian kicks in, glancing at his watch.

"Shit." Sliding out, he asserts, "We can't compromise our goals just because some closed minded assholes will be scandalized." And with that, he's gone.

"He's right," declares Brian. 

"Of course _you're_ going to agree with him."

"It has nothing to do with artistic integrity. It's business. The only thing that makes people want shit more than if it's hard to come by is if it's forbidden. Taboo translates into big bucks."

Ben's ring wafts from my cell phone and I eagerly grab it. "Hi!"

"Hey, how'd it go?" he inquires.

"Fine. He's happy to be back in his fort of filth." He chuckles. "So I guess I'll fly home tomorrow. I'm so excited to see you." 

Brian ducks to peek at my crotch under the table. "Liar." I toss a fry at him. 

"I can't wait to see you either, but I just got a call from Roland Abernathy. He's letting me in on the study. I've got to fly to Philly tomorrow for a few days."

It's one of those I'm so happy for you/so disappointed for me moments. "That's great. I know how much you've wanted that." 

"I'm sorry the timing worked out so poorly. But I'll be home in three days or so. Why don't you stay in New York and spend some time with Brian and Justin?"

"Maybe." That could be fun now that I'm done my nursemaid duties. "Good luck and have a safe trip. Talk to you tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you too."

Hanging up, the disappointment is pretty apparent in my face. "Trouble in paradise?" Brian asks.

"No. Things are better than ever," I defend. "Ben's been trying to get tenure, but he's not published enough. There's this professor at Penn who invited him to take part in some study, so he's going there to find out about it. He thinks it will really help his career. I was just anxious to see him. He suggested I stay here a few more days with you guys."

Opening his own phone, he informs me, "I have a better idea." He hits a button, pauses and then speaks. "Hey, Linds. Stock up on condoms and comic books. Your children's fathers are coming to town." And just like that, I'm significantly less dismayed about the extended separation from Ben.


	12. Private Eyes

**Brian's POV**   
  
"Hey," I chirp, breezing into the studio.   
  
"Hey! What are you doing here?"   
  
I shrug. "Just thought we could finally check out The Corner Café," I suggest. It's a new place that's been getting rave reviews…for the waiters.   
  
"Why don't we do it tonight instead? I'm not exactly restaurant ready," he comments, presenting his paint splattered garb.   
  
"How about a burger and a beer at Wet Willy's then?"   
  
"O.k.," he replies, suspicious. "Is something up?"   
  
Glancing down I report, "Not yet." That joke always earns me a chuckle with him. All right. I can't keep it in any longer (no, not that). "We got the Gold."   
  
He freezes, then throws his arms around me, kissing my cheek repeatedly. "Brian! That's amazing! For Bally?" I nod. "I knew it! I told you those Clio judges would recognize that campaign was fucking genius." Can't argue there. Not only was it some of my best work creatively, it resulted in an unprecedented jump in membership.   
  
"So are you ready to cruise South Beach?"   
  
"You want me to go with you?"   
  
"Well, you ditched the last trip to Miami you were supposed to take with me," I razzingly remind him, my index fingers curling around his belt loops and yanking his hips towards mine. "So…want to bask in the sunshine, Sunshine?"   
  
With a smile that lights his entire face he declares, "You pack the dildos, I'll pack the sunscreen." Leaning forward, his hand grips the back of my neck, propelling my lips to his, gently sucking my bottom one.   
  
Strolling down Bleecker Street, one arm around his shoulder, the other performing the mechanics of smoking my cigarette, I'm forced to dance. Around the subject I've been fending off, that is.   
  
"If you think you can wait me out and I'll forget, you're sadly mistaken," he informs me.   
  
"What the fuck are you talking about?" As if I don't already know.   
  
"We've been back from Paris for over two months. Do you really have some grand plan for your retribution, or was it merely a rouse to put me off indefinitely?"   
  
"Would I do that to you?"   
  
"Fuck, yeah." He's right. I would.   
  
"Don't get your nuts in a knot. There's a plan in action right now. Your restitution is in progress."   
  
"Well, you should know the latitude I gave you isn't unlimited."   
  
"I presumed."   
  
"So when do I get to benefit from the end product of this 'plan'?"   
  
"Not much longer."   
  
"I want a delivery date."   
  
"You're a pushy little shit, aren't you?"   
  
"Like you didn't know that about me the first week we met."   
  
I have to laugh at that. Bumping his hip and calculating in my head, I offer, "Before we leave for Miami."   
  
"Fine. You have three weeks." As we claim a table at Wet Willy's he lays down the law. "If by the time we get down there you haven't repaid your debt to my satisfaction, you have to…" His brow furrows in deep and earnest contemplation. Then, with a wicked grin he decides, "If you haven't satisfied my requirements by then, you have to bring me up to the podium with you to accept your award, drop to your knees, and suck me off right then and there."   
  
"As long as you're being realistic."   
  
He just shrugs. "Then I guess you'd better adequately repay me before that."   
  
"I guess so," I resign, smiling indulgently and leaning in for an affectionate kiss.   
  
Glancing over my shoulder, his face melts into aggravation. "Fuck."   
  
"What?" I ask, peering back in the direction of his glare.   
  
"Oscar's here. He fucking materializes everywhere I go."   
  
"Some people," I sigh in mock sympathy. "No matter how many times you try to get rid of them, they keep turning up. Like crabs at the White Party." A feel a kick to my shin under the table.   
  
"I'm just going to ignore him. Maybe he'll get the idea."   
  
"You never did."   
  
I get the aren't-you-a-riot face. "I'm not confusing the message by repeatedly fucking his brains out."   
  
Touché. "Have you? Given him the message, I mean. Have you told him to fuck off?"   
  
"How can I do that? He's not…he just happens to end up being everywhere I go. I can't exactly tell him not to shop at D'Agostino, get coffee at Buzz, drink here. I don't own the West Village. I run into Jared all the time too."   
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
"That I run into Jared all the time?"   
  
"Yes. That's exactly what I meant," I snidely remark. "Are you sure he just 'happens' to be everywhere you go?"   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"Did you dig into my stash this morning?" I ask, flicking my finger against his forehead. Am I speaking Yiddish? "Maybe he 'happens' to end up wherever you are the way you 'happened' to get an internship at Vanguard."   
  
He snorts, lowering his head as he shakes it. "Some of us don't assume we're the motivation for everybody else's actons."   
  
"Maybe you should."   
  
"The 'just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you' school of thought?" Laughing it off, he gets up to go piss. Once he's out of sight I get up and stride over to the bar. He's just ordered a drink, and as he holds out his ID for Mario I reach over and pluck it from his fingers. Christ! That photo was taken on a tragically bad hair day. I'd sue. Startled, he whips his head around to face me. "What the…"   
  
"We meet again, Mr…Calderon," I read.   
  
"Hello…Brad, is it?" he seethes. Listen, asshole. That's my game. I ignore the intentional error more to piss him off than anything else. As he snatches his ID back, my eye catches something that sends an uneasy twist through my gut. "You seem to have become a fixture around the neighborhood."   
  
"So?"   
  
To Mario, I comment, "Did I ever tell you, I once knew this guy who was desperate for my attention, so do you know what he did?" Mario grins at me knowingly from behind the bar. "He made it his business to pop up everywhere I went. The club I frequented, even got a job at my very own office. I couldn't take a crap without him showing up. Can you imagine something so pitiful? As if by perpetually getting in front of my face I would magically fall madly in love with him." Mario snickers, and Oscar's jaw is clenched, his face shifting from its natural olive to pink to beet red. I toss a bill on the bar and Mario hands me a bottle. Placing it down I tell him, "It's on me." Then I return to our table just as Justin emerges from the bathroom. Without touching the beer, Oscar stands, scowls in my direction, and stalks out.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
I'm vegging in front of the TV after dinner, thinking about going out to Sodom while Justin's over at Daphne's, but not moving an inch. The hot detective on the screen deduces where the perp can be found based on a microscopic nose hair he found or some absurd shit like that and leads them all over the bridge in a caravan. Their excursion revives an earlier realization, so I finally get off my ass and head for the computer. After poking around a while I find something that resuscitates the initial uneasy twist my gut took. It only gets worse as I explore. My instincts are all sending up flares that the rational voice in my head keeps trying to extinguish. I'm overreacting. Right? After everything that's happened, I'm probably just unreasonably quick to assume the role of protector. I sit immobile for over an hour, anxiously debating, chewing my thumbnail nearly clean off. Finally, unable to ignore my qualms any longer no matter how unwarranted they may be, I pick up the phone and dial.   
  
"Carl? It's Brian. I need to talk to you."   
  
*************************   
  
**Justin's POV**   
  
I'm hanging up my coat when Brian meets me at the door.   
  
"We're going to Pittsburgh this weekend," he states.   
  
Uh, "I can't. I have to…"   
  
"Fuck it, whatever it is." His voice is insistent, that arrogantly authoritative tone he gets with me.   
  
"Brian, I don't know what this is about, but I…"   
  
"Did you know your little admirer lives in Brooklyn?"   
  
"Huh?"   
  
"The ever-present Oscar. He lives in Brooklyn. Still think you just 'happen' to run into him in the grocery store down the street from us? How about in our favorite bar, or in the coffee shop that 'happens' to be in the building where you fucking _live_?"   
  
My head is racing in a million different directions at once. "First of all, how the fuck do you even know that?" 

"I saw it on his ID."   
  
"When did you…" Oh, shit. Don't tell me. "At Wet Willy's? Why would you approach him after I said I just wanted to ignore him?" The famous Kinney blank stare is all I get. "I told you, he didn't do anything. He's just…there all the time."   
  
He grabs my arm and drags me to the computer. "Take a look at this."   
  
"What is it?"   
  
"His blog." My eyes roll involuntarily.   
  
"I know for a fact that you don't have a shitload of spare time on your hands. This is how you're spending the little you have? Reading some pest's blog?   
  
"Just read it."   
  
Fine. I scan the first few entries, fighting back the smile as I do. In a sarcastically consoling tone I tease, "It must be hard hearing that I'm his 'Phantasmic Artist' while you're 'The Ancient Demon'."   
  
"Keep reading," he directs me, deadly serious.   
  
O.k. It's a little creepy. I'll give him that. Evidently Oscar really is obsessed with me, following me around and reporting on my activities, swooning over my smile, ranting about how he wishes "The Ancient Demon would return to whatever corner of hell he came from."   
  
Pointing to a beating heart icon he instructs, "Click that."   
  
A gallery of photos appears. Dozens of them. Me blading in the park with Alex, laughing on the subway with Daphne, at an outdoor café with Jared. There are several of Brian and me together, each one displaying an unflatteringly altered Brian—horns drawn on his head, his teeth blackened out. Stupid shit like that. Scrolling down I'm abruptly sick to my stomach. Sinking into the chair I'm confronted with a grainy picture of Brian fucking me in the back room of Flame. It must have been taken two nights ago when we went there in the mood to fuck someplace new. Next to it is a portion of the image blown up—a close-up of my face cloaked in rapture.   
  
My hand shields my gaping mouth as I scroll on. The next one's of Brian getting a blow job at Sodom atop a caption that's a virtual tirade about infidelity and betrayal. The upper half of his body is obscured in darkness and the resolution sucks, but I'd know that cock anywhere. It had to be taken last night because I can see the bruise on his hip I gave him during a particularly athletic encore session we had when we got home from Flame the night before.   
  
My mind speeds back to the comment he was making when Brian interrupted us at D'Agostino. I joked about our door still hanging securely and he had started to say, "I guess it would be. _That_ thing…it would take a tank to…" How does he know about our uncommonly mammoth door? He's been here. Not just to Buzz, but upstairs.   
  
Brian sees the color drain from my face and says, "Carl thinks we should meet with one of their guys who…"   
  
"Wait a minute…" That snaps me out of my stupor. "You called Carl?" He pulls his lips between his teeth, silently guilty. Incensed, I scold, "I'm not some fragile little faggot you have to safeguard. How many times do I have to tell you I can fucking take care of myself? I'm not seventeen anymore. And you're not my father."   
  
The guilt disintegrating, he barks, "No, _I_ actually give a shit whether you live or die."   
  
"That was low, even for you."   
  
"Why? It's true."   
  
"I know," I admit sadly. Sometimes his truths hurt more than any lie.   
  
His combativeness melts into worry. "Justin, he's a fucking whack job. Come to Pittsburgh with me and talk to Carl's guy." Smoothing his hand down the side of my face, he regards me with urgent eyes. Wow. This is seriously freaking him out. He's blowing it completely out of proportion, but maybe this cop will help me calm him down.   
  
Turing my head to soothingly kiss his wrist, I submit. "O.k. I'll talk to him."   
  
He drops his face to his outstretched arm in relief and then pulls me in for a tight hug. "You look hot in that picture."   
  
My face buried, I murmur against his neck, "You don't need a picture. Any time you want that view, you can make it happen."   
  
Sliding his hand under my shirt, easing it over my head, he suggests, "How about right now?"   
  
"Right now works."   
  
He holds my face in his hands, driving his gaze right through me, pulling me to him for a kiss filled with the kind of passion fear generates. His movements engineered to keep his arms consistently around me, he contorts himself like he's trying to encircle me in a protective bubble. With every inch of his body he repeats the words he said to me years before: _I want you safe. I want you around for a long time._   
  
He enters me, quick and intense, kissing me hard throughout, gripping me purposefully as we rapidly build to fierce orgasms, pounding as if he can fuck me into security. Even after we've come he won't let go, clutching me as his breath slows. In an effort to comfort him, I keep my legs wound around his, smattering his shoulder with tiny kisses, lightly raking my fingernails up and down his back. After a few minutes it seems to work, and he nestles his face into the crook of my neck, squeezes me, and lets out a long, slow sigh.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
The driver stops in front of Kinnetik and I run in to get Brian. Our bags are in the car and we've just got enough time to get to the airport for our flight. I still can't believe he let me out of his sight long enough to run to the office this morning. He's been like velcro since he saw that fucking blog.   
  
As I walk down the hall I see Adam walking towards me. "How'd Remson like the pitch?" I ask.   
  
"They loved it. It's a go." He holds his hand up and I slap it as I pass him.   
  
Good. That will help his mood. Eden's not at her desk, so I pop into Brian's office to collect him. But it's empty as well. I jump onto his computer to check his calendar, but what pops out at me isn't today's appointments. I blink my eyes to make sure I'm reading it correctly, swallowing the lump that's developed in my throat. If Adam says the Remson campaign's a go, it's well past concept development. So why does Brian have a 9:30 next Friday with Dr. N. Rosenberg?


	13. Twilight Zone

**Justin's POV**

"It's so out of character," I shout over the blaring music. "I never met anyone in my entire life who's  _less_ of an alarmist than Brian."

"He's always been protective when it comes to you." 

"Not just me," I point out, raising my eyebrows to remind Michael he's included in that mix. 

He nods in agreement. "I know. He's always stood up for me. But with you…he defended you to me from the very beginning. I nearly fell over. I don't think I'd ever heard him call somebody 'kinda sweet' before. At least not without meaning it as an insult."

" _'Kinda sweet?'_ When the fuck did he say that?"

"When you showed up at Woody's. That night you followed us to Babylon the first time." 

"No fucking way." I'm so sure.

He verifies it with a big eyed nod. "I saw you talking to my mom and Uncle Vic and told him you'd hunted us down. He said for me to leave you alone, that you were 'kinda sweet'. The way he looked at you was even…I don't know, goofy."

"I cannot believe that." I make him look me in the eyes, and I what I see there is pure sincerity. I guess Lindsay was right. Seems there was something about me that sucked him in (as well as sucked him off) from day one, just like there was for me. 

"And I'm sure you're the only person he'd ever…" he trails off uncomfortably, taking a gulp of beer in an attempt to cover. Something tells me he was going to finish it with "hit me over" and then realized I might not be privy to that information. "Brian looks out for the people he cares about. And there's nobody he cares about more than you." Whoa. There's not even a hint of anger or jealousy in his voice when he says that. We've come a long way, baby. A looooooong way. Ben hugs him from behind, kissing his cheek. I'm thinking he noticed too.

"I love that he wants to look out for me. I look out for him too. That's what partners do." Memories of Kip's and John's accusations spring to mind. "But that's different than gluing himself to me. He wouldn't even let me run downstairs to Buzz to get a thing of whipped cream the other night."

"Whipped cream?" Michael wonders.

Uh…"Never mind. That's not the point." Ben ducks his head and smiles.

"Don't forget, he saw you take a bat to the head right in front of him," Michael rehashes.

"That was _six years ago_. He hasn't been like this all that time."

"Maybe this is bringing that back, like those vets who have flashbacks."

Ben adds, "It could also be the cumulative effect of that, the bomb, even your…sorry, but what can only be termed 'risky behavior'with the Pink Posse. You have been through an awful lot."

"Well, I hope this guy can pacify him, because he's driving me fucking insane."

Ben squints at me. "Are you sure he's really overstating the potential threat?" 

Great. Another one with a the-sky-is-falling attitude. Right decision not mentioning the door thing to any of them. A tinge of sadness in my voice, I admit, "It is upsetting." Michael supportively lays a hand on my shoulder. "The least he could do is get a better camera phone. The one he's using doesn't do me justice." The once supportive hand slaps the shoulder it was resting on and I titteringly recoil. "Michael, I beg you, please don't tell Debbie about…"

"She knows." Of course she does. "Did you really think Carl wouldn't tell her?" 

"Is she…"

"Freaking out? If you call wanting to find out who's the 'god damned fucking president of the internet' so she can demand immediate action freaking out." We can't help but snicker at her well-meaning ignorance. "Oh, and she also said to tell you your ass looks adorably fuckable in that picture." 

Jesus Christ! I hide my face in my hands, doing everything I can not to think about her…oh, no no no no no…about _my mom_ looking at that picture. That is so fucked. Motherfucking Oscar.

Needing a mental diversion, I considered asking Michael if he knows anything about this doctor mystery. But I learned my lesson about that. The hard way. No, I need to wait for Brian to let me in on whatever it is. All I know is if he's dying, I'll kill him.

Brian returns from the office and stuffs a popper up his nose. I take one step and he's on me like Emmett on hot pink lamé. "Where are you going?"

Oh, come on. "To get a drink."

"I'll go with you." He slings his arm around my shoulders, practically shoving the popper up my nostril. 

I jerk my head, duck and spin away, increasingly vexed. Sternly I scold, "Brian…"

Michael wisely thwarts the confrontation, grabbing Brian's hand and demanding, "Dance with me." He drags him to the dance floor, Brian following reluctantly. I let out a sigh of futility.

"This is what you wanted," Ben reminds me. "For him to love you. To be the most important person in his life. With the possible exception of his son, of course." 

"You know that saying, 'Be careful what you wish for?'" I joke…kind of. 

He grins, patting me on the back empathetically. "Let's go get that drink. I think you need it."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Would you please tell him he's being ridiculously fatalistic about this?" I plead.

"Your boyfriend's not wrong to be concerned," Detective Wykowski cautions. "But as intrusive as this may be, it's pretty tame. You say your interactions with him have been pleasant, friendly, superficial?" I nod. "He's probably harmless. I wouldn't worry too much. He hasn't made any threats. He hasn't even exhibited any behaviors that would be cause to raise a legitimate red flag, like…stealing your underwear from somewhere. That's a big one with these freaks." My body temperature spikes about twenty degrees in a fraction of a second, my face scarlet and scalding hot as I flash back on that first morning at the loft, stuffing Brian's underwear in my pocket as Michael whined for me to get a move on. Brian catches me, curious. I make it a point not to return his gaze. 

"Do we take this to the NYPD?" Brian asks.

"It can't hurt to have a complaint on the record, but I have to warn you they won't do anything. They can't. The guy hasn't done anything illegal."

Brian snarls, "So, what? We have to wait until this nut case takes a bat to the other side of his head?" His hand is gripping his knee and I cover it with my own. But he yanks it away, distraught.

"He's not a jock like Hobbs. He's just some fairy. He'd probably only use a whiffle bat." 

The weak attempt at humor goes over like a lead balloon. Bringing his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, he implores, "Would you fucking take this seriously?"

Detective Wykowski notes, "You're a public figure, right?"

"I wouldn't say that." Public figure? _Me_?

"You've had articles written about you. People, even if it's only in the New York art community, are talking about you. You're known, at least in a limited sense. Isn't that true?"

"Increasingly," Brian submits, having no tolerance in this case for modesty.

"Well, this isn't that unusual then. Not that it doesn't happen to 'regular' people too. It does. All the time. But usually that's with an ex or somebody they know. For it to be a stranger, that's more prevalent with people in the public eye. I wouldn't be surprised if it's not the only time you come up against something like this."

"What the fuck do we do?" Brian petitions.

"Just keep your eyes open. Monitor his web site. In fact, keep screenshots of it in case he takes it down. If he calls you, don't pick up. Make him leave a message and then record it. As for interacting with him, avoid it. I know you want to confront him, but it's a bad idea." I shoot a quick glare at Brian. "If you're forced to interact, keep it civil but not friendly. Definitely don't share personal information with him. You don't want to give him a reason to hope you're receptive to a relationship of any kind, and you definitely don't want to help him keep tabs on you. You may even want to change up your routine. Don't be predictable, don't make it easy for him." Then, glancing at the back room shots, he adds awkwardly, "Uh…and while this guy's still focused on you, you may want to restrict your…um, recreational activities to more private venues." 

"Fuck that," I exclaim. "I'm not letting some crackpot dictate how I live my life. I refuse to act like a fucking victim." Brian visibly slips into his quiet, unsettled gotta-back-off-when-he-gets-like-this mode.

"Like it or not, that's what you are. Refusing to accept that fact will probably make you behave in ways that will just feed into his actions. And keep in mind, you're not the only one who needs to watch their back. If he sees anyone close to you as an obstacle, they can wind up being a target too. Friends, co-workers, and especially you," he puts forth, directing that last part to Brian.

Oh, _**hell**_ no. If that bastard so much as… O.k. Deeeeeep breath. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on Brian for his reaction after all.

"Trust your gut. Look for any signs of escalation. Even if you see them, though, think twice about filing for a restraining order. Sometimes that just sets these guys off. If it gets to that point, which I doubt it will, let me know. We'll reevaluate the situation."

"Thank you for your time," I offer with a handshake.

"Sure thing. I hope you won't need any more of it."

*************************

**Brian's POV**

"Shit!" I hear, accompanied by the pitter patter of little plastic packets scattering across the floor. "There are enough condoms in here to supply all the queers at Babylon for a month!"

"I'd offer you some, Theodore, but I only keep the magnums in stock. Feel free to have purchasing order you some snug fits."

He sneers, bending to pick them up and return them to the cabinet above. "Thanks anyway, Bri, but I really don't have a use for them."

"My condolences. I'd heard the fire goes out for a lot of couples after a while, but I had no idea things had gotten so chilly between you and Blake."

"They haven't! I'll have you know we're complete animals in bed. We fuck like rabbits," he announces defensively.

It takes me a second. "You mean you fuck bareback?"

"Of course. We're two negative partners in a committed, completely monogamous relationship. Why wouldn't we?"

I'm still for a moment, absorbing that. Then I start to fidget. I want to ask, but it's too surreal. Me, seeking information about fucking from….good lord, _Ted Schmidt_? Isn't that the first sign of the apocalypse? Fuck it. Exerting colossal effort to sound downright casual, I begrudgingly inquire, "Is it really that different?"

His head snaps toward me. "You've never…" 

"Never."

Oh, Christ. Here it is. His chest puffs out like a proud little penguin. What the fuck was I thinking? "It's…it's amazing—an entirely different level of sensation. I didn't even realize how much condoms diminish your sensitivity until we stopped using them." That's hard to wrap my mind around, the thought that sex can be even…more. Imagining it, he slowly shakes his head and smiles. "You would go absolutely…" Then his eyes widen as he surmises, "Are you thinking of giving up other men?"

"Of course not," I spit. "Somebody needs to uphold the fine traditions of old school homosexuality. It's apparently becoming a lost art." Looking down, I shuffle papers and offhandedly mumble, "At least not permanently."

"You are! You're planning to…" he sputters.

In a hushed voice, I threaten, "Not one word to anyone, Theodore. Or I'll see to it you've got nothing to bareback _with_." He shakes his head rapidly from side to side, his eyes enormous, fingers pinching his lips shut.

"When did you and Justin decide this?"

"Justin doesn't know yet." That stops him dead. "You're the only one who knows. So if it gets back to me that a single soul is aware of this, I'll know exactly where they heard it."

Clearing his throat, he hesitantly contends, "Well, I would never presume to offer the great Brian Kinney sexual advice, but if I may be so bold, I have one recommendation." Kill me now. Just…kill me now. I swear, Rod Serling is going to pop out from behind the sofa any second. I suck it up, taking a deep breath and with my expression invite him to share. "Without the predicament of the condom breaking down, you might want to try Eros. It's amazing. In fact, it's all we'll use anymore. Or if you'd rather you can go for something oil based. They're…those water based lubes aren't…let's just say Justin will appreciate it."

Behind me I hear the ear-piercing squeak of rubber on marble. Fuck. FUCK! Michael's rooted in the doorway, blanched and stricken. Then in a flash he turns and bolts. Flying after him, I catch him in the middle of the hallway, grab his arm and pull him into a strong embrace. He fights me but I grasp tighter, trapping him in my arms. He finally relents, sobbing against my chest, his own heaving. Great idea, making the entire interior of the office glass. We've got a sold out audience.

"Come on," I whisper softly in his ear, guiding him back into my office where there's at least a modicum of privacy. Thank god Ted had the brains to evacuate the premises. Once there he backs away, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Despondent, angry, he cries, "It's not fair!"

"No, it's not." The devastation on his face is crushing.

"I love Ben so much. We're totally committed to each other, one hundred percent faithful. I don't even _want_ to fuck anyone else. We do everything you're supposed to. And you…you…I mean, I know you love Justin, but…" He dissolves into another round of heart wrenching tears, wiping at his eyes with his palms.

Right now I would give every fucking penny I have to fix this for him. To even have something to say that would matter, that wouldn't be worthless. That could give him the tiniest bit of comfort. But there's nothing.

"I have to go," he sniffles.

"Don't." I clamp my hand on the back of his neck, squeezing, focused on those sorrowful eyes. He lays his hand on my wrist and shakily sighs. Tugging, I hold him one more time and do the only thing for him I can. Be there.

********************

**Justin's POV**

I've been jonesing for a lemon bar all fucking day, so I drop by the diner before heading back to the loft. Maybe I'll even take some over to my mom's for Molly. 

Michael's hunched in a booth with Ted, his face buried in his hands. I slide in, teasing, "Were you and Ben out partying into the wee hours again? Or did you guys hook up the sling and wear yourselves out?" His hands drop to reveal jarringly red, swollen eyes. "Shit, Michael, what's the matter?"

He and Ted exchange a disquieted look. "Nothing. Just a bad day."

I reach across the table, taking his hand. "Can I help?"

His eyes water, and his body language is as if the mere offer was hurtful. "I can't," he blurts. Wriggling out of the booth, he rushes out, bouncing against people in his haste.

"Did I do something?"

"No. You didn't do anything."

"What happened?"

He plays with his fingers, carefully composing an answer. "You know how something will come up that forces you to face a reality you usually don't let yourself think about?" Do I ever. He presses his lips together and shrugs.

"Maybe Brian and I will stop over at their place later. Cheer him up."

"I don't think that's a good idea," he insists quickly. My knit eyebrows prompt him to add, "He needs Ben right now."

That makes sense, I guess. I can't remember the last time I saw Michael this upset. When Vic died, maybe. I'm feeling so sad for him and I don't even know what's wrong.

Before I even step into the loft I know Michael's not the only one who's grieving. The pungent cloud hits me as I slide the door open and Coltrane's seeping through the speakers. Sure enough, he's stretched out on the sofa, a nearly empty bottle of Beam in his hand.

I deposit the lemon bars on the counter and join him. "Please tell me you're not letting that psycho prick get to you this much." He reacts like I just asked him to french kiss Debbie (o.k., that's disgusting). "Then what?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

I wonder if this has anything to do with Michael. Or worse, that fucking doctor's appointment. "Is it…"

I barely get the two words out before he snaps, "I _said_ I don't want to fucking talk about it."

Years of experience have taught me I've got zero chance of prying whatever it is out of him, so I sit down at the table and nibble my treat, although the joy of it has faded incalculably.

Unable to stop myself, I cautiously try again. "Is this about Michael?"

He springs to attention. "Why would you ask that?"

"I saw him at the diner. He's wrecked."

"What did he tell you?" The pitch of his voice comes across as panicked, and it's contagious. My stomach starts to churn as I postulate wildly. Ted said Michael was forced to face something he's been struggling to ignore. Brian's cancer's back. Michael found out and now he's falling apart.

"He didn't tell me anything. What the fuck is going on?" He stalls with another giant swig from the bottle. "Brian," I prod.

Mournfully he discloses, "Michael found out what I've been planning. For you. It…threw him, and he had a meltdown."

Is that all? The boulder in my gut mercifully dissolves. "Jesus Christ, Brian! I thought it was something really serious." So much for leaving that persistent jealousy behind us.

His eyes sink shut. Sounding impossibly weary, he maintains, "It's not what you think. This time his misery's justifiable."

The whole ordeal is clearly taking a toll on him, so I don't push. But I can't for the life of me figure out what it could be. I position myself behind him, my fingers kneading his exceptionally taut shoulders. I rest my lips against his temple, quietly suggesting, "Why don't you go to the club and find some stud to fuck into tomorrow?" When in doubt, return to the tried and true methods of pain management.

A strange laugh bubbles out of him. One with a bittersweet timbre. Patting my hand, he says, "Not tonight." Then he leans forward to roll another joint.


	14. Payback

Justin's POV  
  
Chopping. Mixing. Poaching. None of it's working. Nothing's successfully distracting me from the knowledge that this morning was Brian's appointment. At least my nervous energy will result in a comforting dinner for him. If he needs it, that is. Maybe he won't. Maybe it'll be a celebration. You know what? Fuck this. When he gets home I'm confronting him. This shutting me out bullshit ends tonight. 

In perfect sync with that thought, I hear the door. While I brace myself for the inquisition, he glides up behind me, setting his hands on my hips, happily singing in my ear, "Mmmm. Smells good."

"It should be ready in about a half hour."

"I wasn't talking about the food." He spins me, gathering me in his arms and planting a breath-stealing kiss on me. "Can you be packed and ready to leave tomorrow?" Something new shines in his eyes. Something…excited, like Gus on Christmas Eve. I experience a surge of relief. Whatever's going on, it seems like he got good news.

"I can't leave until Sunday. You know I have Alex's show tomorrow night. What's up? You want to head down to Miami a few days early? That anxious to fuck on the beach?"

Tucking his tongue into his right cheek, he shakes his head. "We need to go to Pittsburgh first. We can leave for Miami from there."

"Huh? We just got back from Pittsburgh. Is there a problem at the office?"

Kissing me again in a way that leaves my knees weak, he informs me slyly, "I'm ready to settle my debt."

Oh! "It's about time! I'd better get packing then."

"Later," he insists, lifting my shirt and his lips playing across my belly, the tense point of his tongue flicking my left nipple. As we sink to the floor, I decide that maybe I'll wait to confront him about this doctor shit. Just for a little while.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"That sucked. I'm glad we don't generally check any luggage when we fly back and forth," I whine, hauling our massive bags into the loft. "Is there _anything_ left in your closet at home?"

"Just because it's Miami is no excuse to look like a beach bum."

What a fucking clothes queen. Glancing at the clock, I note, "We'd better get going. You know as well as I do that if we're in town, Sunday dinner is mandatory. I really don't want to endure the endless string of reprimands we'll be subject to if we don't show."

"How the fuck did Debbie even find out we were coming in?"

"My mom probably told her."

"And why, pray tell, was it necessary to notify your mother?"

"I didn't realize this was a clandestine affair," I croon seductively, sliding my hand down to his cock.

"We're not staying long," he grumbles, detangling himself, grabbing his keys and marching out in a funk. Not five minutes ago he was the happiest camper in Pennsylvania, practically skipping through the airport. Who knew family dinner would be such a buzzkill? 

As the meal progresses I wish I'd risked Debbie's wrath. Debbie, Carl and I seem to be the only ones oblivious to the cause, but there's an unquestionable tension in the air. Michael's morose and blatantly avoiding conversation or even eye contact with either Brian or me, Ben's hyper-attentive to him, Brian's gloomy, and Ted, Blake, Emmett, and Lyle spend the entire meal glancing timidly between all of them.

The instant plates begin to be cleared, Michael states, "We're gonna go."

"The fuck you are," Debbie balks. "I busted my ass making the rum cake you love for dessert." Cowed by his mother, he miserably pushes a slice around with his fork until she officially declares dinner over, retreating into the kitchen to wrap up the bounty of leftovers. 

Michael walks past on his way out, but Brian catches his hand. "I'm sorry," Michael atones. Shifting his eyes to me and then back he vows, "I'm really happy for you. I don't mean to ruin…"

Standing, his hands placed mollifyingly on the sides of Michael's face, Brian gently assures him, "Shut up. You're not ruining anything." Receiving a weak smile in response, Brian kisses him smack on the lips and releases him to go retrieve his coat.

Watching the exchange but I doubt hearing it, Debbie heads straight for Brian, accusing, "What the fuck did you do to my kid this time?"

Ben jumps in with a hand to her shoulder. "He didn't do anything, Debbie." Then, to Brian, he warmly declares, "He just needs a little time."

Emmett, who as always compulsively needs to dilute any strain, twitters, "So, who's up for Babylon?"

Ted and Blake nod in acceptance, and I respond, "Sure. Sounds good."

"We're not going," Brian counters.

"Come on," I cajole, holding him around the waist and pressing my hips against his. "It'll cheer you up." Wiggling my eyebrows I add, "I brought those pants that make you salivate."

"Your wild homosexual imagination is on overload. They do not make me salivate." But I can already feel his mood lifting. 

Pressing harder, feeling his cock respond, I entice him further. "…aaaand the sleeveless top with obscene amounts of lycra I got in Paris." I give him my puppy dog eyes. The ones I know he can't say no to. "Please." 

Sighing, he surrenders. "Fine. If it means that much to you, we'll go."

Victorious, I hum all the way back to the loft. Changing in record time, we quickly find ourselves sucking down a cocktail with the guys. But something's off. And it's not depression, or whatever the fuck you call what he's going through over this Michael thing. I can't read this. He's jumpy as shit. Restless. Antsy.

"Let's dance," I urge, drawing him onto the floor, on a quest to resuscitate the chipper companion who stepped of the plane with me a few scant hours ago. We sway and grind, and I pull off my ultra-confining top, falling glitter clinging to my damp skin. His hands deliciously rub my torso, running up and down my back and sides as I cling to him, kissing my favorite spot on his neck, the one that makes him sigh. I feel his hand aim for my waistband, attempting unsuccessfully to slip underneath. Tight pants have their disadvantages. 

Trying and failing once more to breach the barrier, he growls in my ear, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

My swelling dick painfully contained, I recommend, "Why don't we just go upstairs?" 

"For Christ's sake, Justin! Can we please…just…" he grouses, grunting in frustration. 

Furrowing my brow, I question, "Since when do you not want to fuck me in public?" He looks stuck. Caught. Foiled. I grip the side of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. He smiles, but it's half-hearted. Astrophysics is easier to figure out than this man. 

Resolved, I take his hand and lead him toward the exit.

********************

Brian's POV

This is ridiculous. I'm pacing around, biting my nails like a debutante on her first date. We're just going to fuck. Like we do pretty much every day of our lives. But let's be honest. This isn't like every other day. Not by a long shot.

He emerges from the bathroom, shirtless and shimmering from the dusting of glitter, the button of his pants undone, fly open. My groin stirs as I notice he went commando (no doubt risking perilous zipper prospects in avoidance of dreaded panty lines), a beguiling tuft of pubic hair peeking out. "Are you going to tell me what's with you?" he asks, plodding over to his suitcase, open in the middle of the living room floor. Bending over to unearth god knows what, he offers me a fabulous view of his incomparable ass, perfectly showcased in his tight little pants. Fuck, he looks hot. O.k. Maybe they do make me salivate. "You've been as edgy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs all night."

"That's it. No more girls' days out with Emmett. Next you'll be offering sage advice from Aunt Lula." His face flows into a bright smile. O.k. Here we go. I clear my throat, initiating, "If I'm not mistaken, we have a matter to resolve."

"We do?" I mirror his sparkling grin. "We do!" he deduces. Holding my forearms he hops up and down eagerly.

Enveloping his warm hand in mine, I guide him into the bedroom. Skeptical, he forewarns, "If this grand plan of yours is just some new supersonic butt plug or vibrating anal beads, I hope you managed to fit your knee pads in there somewhere along with every stitch of clothing you own, because they'll be beneficial for you at the awards ceremony."

We reach the edge of the bed and I lean down to open the drawer. Craning his neck, he peers inside to find nothing unusual. I pluck the bowl from atop the nightstand, dramatically dump the contents, condoms raining like confetti into the open cavity, return the empty bowl to its place, and pointedly shut the drawer. He looks from it to me, mystified. I feel my lips roll in between my teeth and I wait. It doesn't take long. In slow motion, his jaw drops, his incredulous eyes seeking confirmation. When I offer it with a shy grin, he can't move, can't even speak. What do you know? I finally found the secret to shutting him up.

"Breathe," I whisper to him after a moment, genuinely afraid he's forgotten how. 

His chest rises with the generous intake of air, followed by a protracted deflation. Finding his voice, he wonders, boggled, "But…what made you change your mind? I don't want to talk you out of anything, _at all_ , but you're so unwavering about this, and I know for a fact you've been with other guys. You told me yourself about that client you took back to the lair last month. And that picture, of you, at Sodom, last week, you fucked…" he sputters, increasingly disjointed fragments of thought streaming out.

I shake my head coolly. "They just sucked me off. That's all I've let anyone do. Aside from you, I haven't fucked or sucked anyone since Paris."

An emotional lilt colors his stunned response, like that's the sweetest thing he's ever heard. "Really?"

Continuing, I explain, "I talked to a specialist, and he verified that there's negligible, if any even, risk to receiving oral sex. Certainly less than there is in what we already do, given my jizz is a staple of your daily nutritional routine. And he checked me out. I'm clean."

Everything clicks into place, the mystery unraveling in his mind. "A specialist? Let me guess. Norman Rosenberg, M.D.?"

I give him a you-caught-me shrug and he shoves me with such vigor I topple backwards onto the bed. "Fuck you! You scared the shit out of me, you son of a bitch! I had you diagnosed with everything from a stubborn headache to a cancer relapse to doxorubicin cardiomyopathy!"

"Excuse me?"

He shakes his head dismissively. "A potentially fatal heart problem caused by a broad-spectrum cancer drug. One of the hazards of helping Daphne study." I can only chuckle. There are times his drama princess ways are actually rather endearing. A muddled mass of thrilled, pissed, and flabbergasted, he chides, "Why didn't you just _tell_ me? Was it really that you wanted it to be a typically grandiose surprise, or was it that you weren't you sure you could do it?" 

My knee jerk reaction is to snap that of course I knew I could do it. That the implication that I'm some pathetic pathological addict with no self control is preposterous. But it's not even worth denying. If it didn't work on myself, what makes me think it would work on him? Instead I grab at his waistband, yanking him down on top of me. Lifting my head to nuzzle his nose, I innocently plead, "Am I forgiven?" He laughs, clinching me tightly. 

"Wait a minute. Why did we have to come to Pittsburgh for this? We certainly never have any trouble fucking at home."

"I thought you'd want it to be here."

Scanning the room, he inquires, "Why?"

"Because…this is where we made love for the first time."

Magnificently transforming from glistening Caribbean pools to twinkling, vibrant sapphires, brightly wanton and wide with expectation, his eyes attest to an oft-held premise. They truly are a window to the soul. They must be, because with those entrancing orbs riveted to mine, it feels as if our souls converge. 

Gingerly skimming my lips with his own, he testifies, "You're still fucking unbelievable."

"Always was. Always will be."

His left hand adroitly unbuttons my shirt, darting into the gap created, sailing across what's hidden beneath, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I reach up to brush his hair back, only to have it instantly flop back to its initial position. With my hand cradling the back of his head, I pull him toward me, meeting his plump, inviting lips with mine, hungry for any taste of him. My tongue seeks out the sanctuary of his mouth, probing as I'm rewarded with his hot, moist breath. I shrug out of my unfastened shirt, never severing our union. The kiss deepens to an intensity that makes me dizzy, and we begin to we rut against one another, groaning in concert to the arousing sensation. I roll, taking him with me, hovering over him as I peel off his black cotton second skin, kicking my own pants off in the process.

Wrapping his legs high around my waist, he reaches for my cock while ruthlessly assaulting my mouth, piloting it directly to his voracious hole. There's no patience for foreplay right now. Given we're both already as hard as cast-iron and leaking like the Allegheny, it's unnecessary. Besides, there'll be plenty of time for that. Later. The tip of my cock poised and yearning to embark on it's maiden bare voyage, I'm keenly aware of his craving portal, yawning and constricting, frenetically trying to capture me and lure me inside of its own accord, the phenomenon maddening against my ultra-sensitive mushroom head. 

Catching a glint from the ring settled in the hollow of his throat, my heart begins to pound with alarming force. This next motion, this next moment represents a more potent connection than any ludicrous party presided over by some inanely ordained clown could hope to achieve. I drop my head, propping my forehead against his, and pause. I need a second. Suddenly it feels like the room's been abruptly pressurized.

Soft as rose petals, his fingers trace the line of my jaw until they arrive under my chin, effortlessly lifting it. I open my eyes to him projecting an easy grin…and I know. He gets it. He gets everything. He's there, taking up residency in a place I never imagined anyone could infiltrate, never even dreamed anyone would want to. 

My strained muscles loosen and I'm ready. I've never been so ready for anything. My teeth sinking into the soft tissue behind my lips, I nudge my cock through the tight ring of muscle, astounded at how familiar yet brand new it feels. The effect is magnified, sensing every wrinkle, every pulsing fold. He clutches my hair with both hands, his head rolling back, mouth snapping wide open. Sliding into the snug warmth of him, every nerve ending is exploding like a fireworks display inside my body. It's so…fucking………… _Christ_! Not yet fully embedded, I'm already struggling to turn down the fire raging in me enough to hold on. With no obstruction, I'm learning new facets of this body I know as well as my own. I feel him respond in kind, the ripple of his undulating channel inspecting the bare surface of my dick as it draws me deeper and deeper inside, driving me somewhere far beyond crazy. A strangled sound gurgles from me, battling the need broadcast by the onslaught of searing daggers to my spine. No! Not yet! I want to relish this. To devour it. Savor it.

Tilting my hips I carefully reverse, retracing my entry path, then migrate inside again resisting detonation with everything I've got. Intensely focused, I'm quivering, forcing air raggedly through pursed lips in hopes of quieting the insistent screams of my body. Digging his heels into my cheeks, he squeezes and lifts his hips so I sink to unfathomable depths. He lifts his head, gripping mine and ambushing my mouth, burying his tongue as deep in that orifice as I am in his. My quivers become quakes, sweat dripping from my brow, delaying the inevitable less feasible with each passing second. Separating our mouths, holding my face mere millimeters from his, he pleadingly whispers, "I want to feel you come inside me." _Holy. Fucking. Shit_ …it's as if he located a secret button, instantly bursting an overtaxed dam, and I flood into him with a massive surge. His nails gouge matching crescents into the flesh of my upper arms, his rapturous whimpers blending with my expressive moans as I empty into him, the conspicuous deficiency of any containment exhilarating. As he receives me, I lose awareness of where I am. Who I am. Of anything other than him writhing beneath me, his pulsating internal muscles hungrily forcing every last drop they can extract, his own cock spraying vigorously without the benefit of contact from either of us, the knowledge I'm infusing a part of myself in him that's meant to stay. It all spurs a progressively stronger release, and the orgasm takes on a life of its own. So much so I'm not even sure when it ends, or if it ends. I just keep pumping, watching my dick slide out of his spasming hole wet and glistening, thickly covered in my emission, then plunging it back in, the coating inserted inside him once more. It's such an unbelievable turn-on that I'm miraculously hard again, or perhaps I never really surrendered the state at all. 

I continue to fuck him without faltering, applying slower, longer strokes, working in my load, which forms a sensuous lube. The squishing, suctioning sounds of my cock's interplay with his cum lined channel is a powerful stimulant, and the extraordinary heat of his slick walls directly against my swollen tissue, heightened by the burning friction, eclipses anything I've ever felt before. I don't need him to tell me he feels it too. His face says it all. Fevered, euphoric and overcome, it's the final catalyst, and again I shudderingly discharge a healthy injection. As it invades him he groans long and low, his back arching, eyelashes fluttering. It's unbearably beautiful. _He's_ unbearably beautiful, engulfed in ecstasy as I ardently fill him. 

Boneless (everywhere), weak from the exertion and the emotion, I'm submerged in the underlying truth, the bedrock of what led us here. Beyond the physical is the visceral rawness, the consuming reality that god, I love him so fucking much. It's incomprehensible to me how I ever denied something so absolute. For someone whose deity is truth, it's staggering what a master I was at lying to myself.

Reluctantly I extract myself, rolling onto my back beside him. His lips bounce from my shoulder to my chest, waltzing across my belly until he reaches his destination. Ravenously he samples the glaze from my dick, his tongue torturously swirling around the shaft, insatiably licking it clean before sucking savagely on the head. Involuntarily I buck and moan loud and steady, crazed by the overstimulation, twisting his hair in my grip, gasping as I inconceivably dribble out a few more drops for him to wolf down.

Finally content to lay quietly next to each other, lost in our own world, our arms are the only thing touching—my left, his right, pressed against each other from shoulder to wrist. I slip my pinky under his hand, curling it around his own tiny digit, which instinctively hooks around mine.

"We're so lucky. They'll never have this," he softly laments. I don't have to ask what he means. His voice choked with compassion, he empathizes, "No wonder he came apart at the seams." Echoing Michael's own indictment, he protests, "It's not fair."

"Since when does 'fair' have shit to do with anything? Fair is a fantasy." 

He turns his head, tilting it to kiss my shoulder. "You have no idea what this means to me." But my smile conveys I do. Of course I do. "Hey, you never asked me."

I expected this to come up. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and slapping his hand down on my sternum.

No, it doesn't. Not to me. Not when it comes to him. Even if I were guaranteed to be infected, I'd have done it. It was never me I was worried about. But I know I can't say that to him. He needs to feel as responsible for me as I do for him. Sighing, I go through the motions. "O.k. Have you fucked anyone but me since those twins last fall?" His ensnared stare reveals he actually didn't think this through. He doesn't want to answer. I think he's afraid to. Afraid it'll fuck things up somehow if I find out he doesn't trick. "Blown anyone else since Paris?"

More silent hedging. The crafty little sucker sidesteps. "The point is, you don't know for sure. You should have asked." Pouting, he delicately traces my lips with his fingertip. "I couldn't live with it either. If I gave you…anything." Bending down, he delivers a dainty kiss to what his finger had just ministered. 

I reach up to tuck his hair behind his ear. It's gotten long again. My hand brings his face back down with it and I capture his mouth, gently sucking his tongue. "I should have asked," I concede.

He lowers himself, laying half on top of me, his head resting on my chest as he tosses a leg over, settling it between mine. "I love you," he mutters against my skin, tenderly treating it to his luxurious lips. There's really nothing like hearing that when you know it's true. People throw those words out as easily as "Nice to meet you." But when it's actually _meant_ , when it's pure and genuine and you believe it unconditionally, there's not a single thing on earth that compares. My hand snakes across my abdomen bound for his, our fingers weaving together. 

On my way to a sated slumber, I feel the muscles in his face shift into a slow, blissful grin. I lift my head, crunching forward to kiss the top of his head, tightening my arms around him.

"I like how this feels," he delights.

No shit. "Mmmm hmmm."

"Mmmm." He squeezes me back. "I meant this." He takes my hand and leads it to his spherical ass, guiding it into the crevice. Evidence of my recent bequest seeps out in a tiny stream, and remarkably in reaction my blood cells revive, tripping over each other in a frenetic race to my cock. 

*************************

Justin's POV

I can't believe this is real. It's actually happening. And it's more than I ever envisioned. I'm swept away by the notion that he's inside me now. Really inside me, synergistically—my body absorbing his fluids, a part of him becoming a part of me. He'd say I'm being melodramatic, abhorrently sentimental, but secretly he recognizes the intimacy of this binds us together profoundly. I know him too well. I know he was thinking it, just before we crossed that threshold. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

The delicious tickle of his juices dripping out is amazing, and I shepherd his hand there to show him. His dick instantly tumescent, he wriggles out from under me, kissing a damp path down my back, the air evaporating the saliva he leaves in his wake, creating shivery cool spots on my blazing skin, causing me to force short, staccato breaths from my lungs. All the while his finger is purposefully smearing the seepage around my inflamed hole. I can't wait to feel his burgeoning erection penetrate me again, can't wait for the electric shocks that shoot through me as he pistons in and out, his simmering secretion diffusing throughout my body.

I lift up on all fours, rocking back for accessibility. He palms my cheeks, pushing them apart, and whisks his tongue over the puckered flesh, tasting the altered flavor of himself oozing out. Titillated by it, he swirls his tongue along my crack, wandering to one side, then the other. I fucking love being rimmed by him. I crave his tongue on me, in me, propelling me to the brink of insanity; his tongue that is so reminiscent of the rest of him—long, narrow, strong, skilled. It's a tongue that was made for rimming. And it's performing its crowning achievement with unprecedented zeal. Scrubbing every last molecule from the surrounding flesh, he next pokes through, scooping more from my overflowing tunnel, relentlessly venturing deeper, twisting to explore every angle, every nook. My arms collapse as he rims me within an inch of my life, my face crashing down onto the mattress, my hands clenching as more and more of the sateen fabric bunches within them.

"God, Brian……..ohhhh……god…………..oh, gahhhhh…" I'm desperately trying to beg for mercy. I can't take it, it's just…Jesus, I can't take any more. But I can't even think how to say it. The gift of language has left me entirely, only primitive noises spewing from me with a vengeance. I can see tomorrow's headline now: _"Up and Cumming" Young Artist Found Dead with Lover's Tongue Lodged Up His Ass_. How proud my mom will be. Woozy, I feel like I'm swimming in and out of consciousness, my fists briefly releasing the clumps of cotton to reach forward and grip the edge of the mattress. As his excavation persists, my fingers squeeze so tightly that they slip and I jostle back, assisting him in his mission. Immediately I reach forward again to gain purchase, sinking my teeth rabidly into my arm. My dick is aching, pressing insistently into my belly, but I can't pry my fingers away to attend to it. They're all that are tethering me to the ground. 

He offers a reprieve, or so I think, abandoning my molested hole. Then I feel the tip of his tongue slide down, across my perineum to my most sensitive spot, just at the boundary of my sac. My arm whips back, and I grasp his hand, crushing his fingers together. It tells him what I need him to know, and again his turgid shaft punctures me like a fiery brand, his engorged head swabbing my prostate along the way, and with an uninhibited cry I lose it, shooting wildly, convulsing, delirious. I'm mildly aware that he's joined me (no doubt the acuteness of my seizure providing a domino effect), his face bearing down against my back as mine burrows into the pillowtop. It doesn't feel like an orgasm, but rather a chain of them, hijacking me again and again, each one just a pale preview of the next.

Nothing more than a rag doll, I crumple. Drained (in every possible way), he wilts beside me, both of us unable to stop panting for much longer than usual. Once recovered enough to speak, he asks, "So, Judge Taylor, what's the verdict? Is my debt forgiven?"

"I'd say this was unequivocally adequate amends."

"That's too bad." I furrow my brow, clueless. "I was hoping you'd require me to sweeten the pot."

"Come to think of it, your reparation _is_ currently incomplete."  
  
"Oh it is, is it?"

"Mmm hmm. Once I've regained the use of my limbs, I expect to skinny dip myself."

He grins sweetly at me, reaches out, and slips his finger through the ring adorning my neck, using it to pull me to him, kissing me so tenderly I faintly purr. As we break apart, he continues to finger the platinum band, more overtly attentive to it than he's ever been. I place a peck on his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then close my eyes so I can relive the entire night in my dreams. 


	15. A Time to Dance

  
Author's notes:

Welcome to the last chapter of **Into the Sunset**. Sorry for the long delay! Between needing some recovery time from the last chapter, being sick, and being out of town a few times, it kept getting tabled. Enjoy, and keep your eyes out for the third story of the series, **True North**. I'll probably take a few months' break before I start posting it, but it is already in the works.

Thanks again to everyone who gave me such amazing support! And now, without further ado...

* * *

**Justin's POV**

I'm gently drawn out of sleep by a warbling squeak. Half awake, I realize the sound is coming from me. Then I realize why. My buttocks are clenched, my pelvis unconsciously thrusting up into the balmy harbor of an attentive mouth, a velvety tongue pampering my shaft. If there's a better way to be welcomed into the day, I can't imagine what it would be. My left hand luxuriously rubs my torso on it's way down, my fingers like inchworms dispatched through the field of his hair, wriggling as they massage his scalp, insistently forcing his head down to meet my rising middle. As always when he wakes me using the implement of my cock, my faculties never get the opportunity to fully take hold and I unreservedly fuck his face as the weak little squeak that first pierced my dreams slides into a strong baritone moan.

Recognizing I'm at least partially alert he lifts his mouth, eliciting a whine of protest. His hand lightly strokes me as he licks and nips his way up to my head, over my lips, and around to my ear. Throatily, seductively he whispers, "I thought you weren't planning on waiting for Miami to go skinny dipping." My mouth curls into a slow, sleepy smile and my eyes finally open a touch—enough to see that he's fingering himself, impatiently waiting for me to wake, stretching himself for me, wanting me inside him, eager for me to...sweet Jesus! All the swirls and flutters my gut was riddled with the very first time he brought me here have apparently lain in wait, prepared to pounce again at some point in the future. That point being now. "Have at it," he invites froggily. "Dive in."

With a strength that takes him by surprise, I wrap my arm around his neck, driving his lips smashing into mine, kissing him so hard I know we'll be bruised but already so worked up I can't control myself. Recovering from the shock of my sneak attack, he grabs my face, his fingers digging in around my hairline, and returns my zealous assault, our tongues flailing wildly in each others' mouths, both of us making a considerable effort to suck the breath from the other's lungs. I think he's winning, because I have none left.

Ripping my mouth away, I push down on his shoulder with the same brawn I just employed to kiss him, forcing him face down onto the mattress and scale his back as he grunts with arousal at my roughness. My knees push his thighs apart, and rock hard I rub the bubbling tip of my dick across his exposed hole. Lifting his hips, he demands action, and holding my breath I penetrate his ready passage, his muffled "Fuck!" dissipating into the pillow. Taking his pathway as far as I can travel, I hesitate. Oh my god. My holy fucking god. I swoon, unprepared for it to feel so...so much _more_. Intoxicated, swallowed by the same inflated sensations he recently encountered, I'm egged on further by my insight into his own current experience. Everything I felt last night. The ridge of my cock head tickling as it rubs against his tight walls, the newness of the textures, the mounting heat that's always been mitigated by latex and water based lube.

I press myself down from head to toe, prone on top of him, wanting not just my cock but every inch of me inside him, arranging every conceivable bit of flesh I can against his flesh. To aid my mission, my hands slowly slide around and beneath him, and following he tucks his under as well, holding mine firmly against his pecs, his fingers weaving between my own. The vibration of his pleasured moans provoke me to pivot my hips a little faster, driving even deeper by kicking his thighs a hair further apart. In response, his breath hitches and he pulls my hands closer together, cinching my arms to a suffocating degree around his rib cage. Against my palm his heart thuds appreciably and I feel his chest expand as his breathing becomes heavier and heavier. Blood roars through my veins like a California brushfire, scorching me as it flows. I struggle to clear my mind of all thought. I don't want to think. I just want to feel, to live in this moment and brand it into my memory. To be solely tactile, not missing a single touch, a single reflex, a single nerve being stimulated.

Under me, the muscles in his back ripple, and one of his hands releases mine to wedge itself down to his cock, tugging purposefully. I further increase the speed of my pumping, the thumb of my deserted hand teasing his erect nipple in tiny circles, and he twitches everywhere. Then I hear them, the noises I only get to hear on occasion, the ones I know mean he's completely gone, totally lost in ecstasy, floating somewhere outside the bounds of consciousness. I fucking love those noises. They reliably send me rocketing into orbit and today is certainly no exception. What I really relished last night was feeling his cock swell just before he flooded my ass, the pronounced pulse running through it. He seems to concur. My dick throbs, projecting the cum out of me and into him, and as if to equalize, he accommodates my load by ejecting one of his own, another muted cry of "Fuck!" absorbed by a mouth full of down and high thread-count cotton.

I slide off to his side when our spasms at last subside and we gaze at each other blissfully, quietly, wallowing in the afterglow. Caressing my arm with his fingertips, he notices the residual teeth marks on the inside of my upper arm. "Did I do that?"

"Sort of. I did it last night while you were rimming the shit out of me."

"Unfortunate choice of words."

I laugh, playfully shoving him. I tuck my chin into my neck, inspecting the impression. "Your tongue should be registered as a deadly weapon." I lean forward to gently kiss him, both of us grimacing slightly from the contact of our swollen, painful lips. I knew that brutal kiss earlier would come back to haunt me. Soothingly he licks the half moon indentation, tenderly rubbing his lips against it. Brushing my fingers lightly on the back of his shoulder, I inform him, "I actually just made a remarkably similar design on you. We've got matching markings."

"Ever the artist. How quaint. Just don't even _think_ about us getting cute little matching outfits to go along with them. I may have mellowed on the whole couples concept, but if we ever approach anything remotely like that, I'll have us both strung up by our balls, and not in a pleasurable way."

"I don't doubt that."

"You shouldn't. I mean it."

"How long do we have before our flight to Miami?"

"About..." He squints at the clock. "...thirty-nine hours. Why?"

Scooching closer to him, I lasciviously declare, "For the next thirty-eight hours we will not be leaving this loft or answering the phone or the door, except maybe for some take-out. I plan to maximize the benefits of your penance."

Grinning, he chuckles, "Does it have an expiration date?"

"Yes. Once we get to Miami, your slate is wiped clean."

"I wasn't planning on abstaining for good, but I don't have to revert to the status quo quite yet."

"Yes you do." He's not sure what to make of my decree. "You've worked your whole career for this. You've earned it. I want the entire celebration to be everything you ever fucking imagined. I know you. Nailing lots of beautiful guys was part of that equation."

"Of course it was. But this particular variable was never factored in given the presumed inconceivability of it, even in the most far-fetched of scenarios."

He's torn. I can see it. He wants to go be...Brian, but he wants this too. I don't think he predicted how much he'd want this once we crossed that line, how unbelievably hard it's going to be to go back. But he needs to. I need him to. I never, ever want to see Bizarro Brian again. "I'm not going anywhere. It doesn't have to be over. We can agree to do this every once in a while. You'll...I mean we'll just pick a period of time to go without anything we're required to go without."

"Like Lent."

"For Lent you're supposed to give up something you eat."

"Precisely."

Laughing, I joke, "I'd love to hear that exchange. 'Yes, Father, this year I've decided to give up ingesting the loads of anonymous men.'"

"We should get extra credit, though, because we'll be observing for three months, not just forty days."

"And you call _me_ the great justifier?"

He reaches over and lights a cigarette. "So in this self-imposed quarantine, do we get to leave the bed?" Rubbing the crust on his torso, he notes, "Because we could both use a shower. We can always continue to 'maximize the benefits' of my penance in there." At the suggestion, my dick experiences a little tick, causing him to chuckle. But quickly it turns to a cough, sucking in a lung full of nicotine when I arduously tongue his nipple. Fingers curling into a claw against my back, he hoarsely suggests, "Maybe Miami _should_ mark the finish line. If we effectively make the most of the next couple of days, your ass might actually require a reprieve." As proof he grabs my arms, flips me on my back, hoists my legs onto his shoulders, and rams himself inside of me until his balls thwap against my hole. I scream out in surprise and pain and revelry at how god damned mind-blowingly good it feels. He's right. A couple of days of this will leave my battered ass desperate for clemency.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I'm late for a change. I was supposed to meet Daphne at Buzz twenty minutes ago, but I got so into this latest painting that I totally lost track of time. As I walk up, she's sitting at one of the outside tables talking to Stephanie and looking awfully serious. She's probably bitching about me. So what's new?

"I know, I'm sorry," I swear as I run up to them.

Stephanie gives me a sad smile. "I got oatmeal raisins. Want 'em?" she asks. The two of us nod like bobble head dolls. Buzz makes the most amazing cookies, but if any of them get broken they can't be sold. So Stephanie always slips me the unsellable pieces.

"What's wrong with her?"

"She told me Oscar's been here, like, a million times a day trying to find out where you've disappeared to."

"Shit."

"The good thing is you've been away so much he hasn't gotten any more 'action' shots of you for his site."

"Daph!"

"What?"

"You looked at them?"

"You bet your ass I did." Then she teases, "And quite an ass it is."

I plant my face in my hands, reminding myself to murder that asshole when I see him. "I guess he'll have to settle for the ones he's got for a while, since we're headed back to Pittsburgh again in a week for the party."

Kicking me under the table, she signals with her eyes over my shoulder as I hear somebody walk up. "Hi, Justin! Wow, I haven't seen you in a while! Did I just hear you say you're heading out of town _again_? Geez, it's like you hardly live here anymore."

Pissed, I start, "Look, Oscar..."

Daphne cuts me off, "I know what you mean. I feel the same way. So...um...I don't mean to be rude, but would you mind if I had him to myself? I kind of need to talk to him about something personal."

"Oh, sure," he mopes. "See you around, I guess." He waves nervously, hesitantly taking his leave.

Leaning forward, she scolds, "What the fuck are you thinking? That detective told you not to antagonize him. You have no idea if he's just a sad weirdo or if he's really psychotic."

"I'm not some sissy..."

"Faggot. I know. God, Justin, you're always so defensive about that. Nobody thinks you are! You're also not stupid. So don't act like it."

She's probably right, but this whole fucking thing seriously pisses me off. "O.k. I'll be good." I mime crossing my heart, wincing as I do.

"What's wrong?"

"My chest is as fried as my face." She cringes sympathetically. Then I mumble, "That's not the worst of it. Brian and I found these really cool bathing suits. You tan right through them so you don't get lines. But I sort of fell asleep on the beach."

"Oh, shit!" She's horrified.

I quickly add, "On my stomach! I was laying on my stomach. But it turned out to be a pretty good thing I granted Brian absolution so he could fuck his way down South Beach. My ass was in nooooo condition to..."

"I get it," she interrupts, scrunching her nose. Shaking her head, she sighs, "I still can't believe you guys actually did it raw."

"Me either." I really can't.

Biting her lip, she hints, "I think Zack and I are going to do it. I mean, we've been exclusive for a while now."

"What about pregnancy?"

"Duh! I know you guys don't have to worry about that, but don't tell me you're not aware of a revolution we call the pill."

Oh. Right. "So things are better? Are they...good? At all?"

"He's definitely getting there. I made him take this seminar with me. We..." She's suddenly shy, embarrassed. "...um, we practiced stuff. Right there, with everybody. I felt like you and Brian."

"Were they watching you? Like when you do a book report in front of the class?"

"Gross! No!" she screeches. "Well, actually, kind of. But it wasn't like...I mean, they were all doing it too. At the same time we were. It was a simultaneous exercise. The tone was totally educational."

Yeah, right. "Are you in love with him?"

Grinning from ear to ear, she hunches her shoulders. "I think I am." Judging by the glow on her face, I think so to.

*************************

**Brian's POV**

Being back from Miami isn't quite so bad since the weather is fucking beautiful in the city. It's one of those sunny, temperate days where everyone is out and about, emerging from their winter hibernation and itching for summer to fully take hold. Every outdoor table at Buzz is taken, one of them by Justin and Daphne. I laugh as I stroll down the block, watching Justin relate some story with his customary animation, making goofy faces as the two of them giggle like little girls. Then I notice them passing a joint between them under the table. Genius, Sunshine. The CIA could really use someone like you. Reflexively I scan the street for cops. I don't find any, but what I do see causes me to alter my path, hanging a right and circling the block. Approaching our building from the opposite direction I quietly steal up behind him and pounce like a well-honed predator. "You can get a better angle from the other corner."

He jumps, dropping his arm to his side, hiding the phone behind him and spinning. "Oh...uh...hi...um...I was just..."

"It's not as hot as the one where I'm plowing his ass, but I'd say it's a keeper." He's flustered, apprehensive, unsure of what I'm going to do. Honestly, so am I. "Actually, I should thank you. That picture turned me on so much I fucked him all night long. Of course, his reaction was less...grateful. He's not so keen on the idea of his mother and sister seeing that shit."

He turns burgundy. "I don't know what you're talk..."

Menacingly, I cut him off. "Listen, you stupid little twat, you're going to leave him...both of us...the fuck alone. Find some other fag to drool over, or I promise you you'll wish you had."

Full of spit and vinegar, he bites back, "You just threatened me! Maybe I should go to the authorities."

I snicker, which confounds him. "Good idea. Let's do that." Baffled, he blinks at me. "You do know that I have a shitload of money, right?" More blinking. "You'd be surprised at how easily some problems can be solved by simply tossing cash at them. Solved, I might add, in a completely legal fashion." I extricate a manila envelope from my briefcase, pointedly displaying it. "For example, it bought me this handy item. It's a very interesting dossier—everything you'd never want to know about one Oscar Calderon. Ironically, speaking of legalities, it's got a compelling story of...how do I put this delicately...a family residing in this fair land of ours without the official blessing of immigration." Excellent. He finally looks as intimidated as I'd hoped he would. He flinches as I grab his hand, raising it so his phone is between us in his outstretched palm. "You want to contact the authorities? Go ahead. I'll wait." I raise my eyebrows, prodding him to act. He just swallows, hard. "That's what I thought." I release him, stuff the envelope back in my briefcase and calmly, commandingly walk away.

It's not until I reach the two hedonistic hyenas that I glance back over my shoulder, satisfied to see that he's gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Kinney," I say in a clipped voice, answering my phone.

"Brian, it's Blake," he whispers miserably.

"You'd better be calling to tell me you're walking through the fucking door."

"He won't come."

"Your marital difficulties are not my problem," I snark curtly.

Clearly frustrated, he whines, "No matter what I try, he says that it's his day off and he doesn't want to see the inside of the office or the club."

"Jesus. As usual it appears I have to do everything. I'll take care of it." I hang up. Unbefuckinglievable. Am I the only competent person around? I dial and he answers immediately. "Theodore," I snap, "Where the fuck do you keep the insurance papers?"

Alarmed, he asks, "Insurance papers? Why do you need those?"

"Some god damned pipe burst and there's water everywhere. I need this fixed immediately. I don't want to lose any more business than necessary."

"Shit! What pipe? What's flooding? Are you closing..."

"The papers, Theodore. Focus."

"My system is very intuitive. You just have to..."

"You know what? I don't have the time to climb into your anal retentive little mind. Get your ass down here and find them."

"But, Bri, it's my..."

"NOW!"

With an aggravated huff, he relents, "Fine. I'll be right there."

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I jog up to the DJ booth, cut the music, and announce, "The guest of honor will finally be arriving in about ten minutes. Places everyone!"

There's a bit of scrambling, and Justin pops out of the office to lean against the railing beside me. A bit haughtily he preens, "Still nothing. Not one more entry in his blog. I _told_ you it would all work itself out if I just ignored him. Didn't I tell you?"

Passively I kiss his cheek, stating, "I guess you did." I have to smirk at how absurdly proud of himself he looks.

"Ted's going to flip."

"Let's just hope a man of his advanced years doesn't have a coronary from the shock." He swats me.

In an impressively short amount of time I hear the back door swing open and Ted call out, "O.k., Bri. I'm here. Where's the..."

"SURPRISE!" The shout raises the rafters, the club filled to the brim with Kinnetic and Babylon staff, old JerkAtWork.com employees, and other assorted friends. I even graciously included a gaggle of his prohibitively dull twelve step pals. Well, maybe begrudgingly. O.k. So Blake and Emmett invited them behind my back. To my credit, I didn't kick them out.

His jaw sweeping the floor, Ted remains frozen. Blake and I escort him to the seat I had prepared for him on the stage—a commode with balloons tied to it and a sign that reads "TED SCHMIDT" on the first line and "Old Fart" on the second. My Go-Go dancers have their hair streaked with powder, gyrating around him using props of walkers and canes, some adorned in Depends. In the background, hunky guys wearing nothing but jocks and climbing harnesses begin their decent over the fake rocks, heading "over the hill".

There's much laughter and joking at Ted's expense, and Emmett repeatedly squeals, "I can't believe you're _forty_!" I think he just wants the opportunity to remind us as often as possible that he's the youngest of our foursome. Shit, I would.

Getting into the whole production, Ted declares, "I have a request. Now that I'm a gray gay, what I really need is to appreciate youth. How about a command performance from my favorite King of Babylon emeritus?"

"No fucking way!" Justin snorts.

"Just-y...Just-y...Just-y..." the crowd begins, the chant gradually increasing in volume and voices. Michael dashes upstairs and has the DJ kick off the music, _High School Confidential_ blaring from the speakers. Helpless eyes implore me, but I just shrug, amused to no end. The chanting is relentless, and from out of nowhere a cowboy hat comes flying at him. Finally, blushing (although who can tell under all that sunburn), having no choice but to surrender, he whips off his shirt, leaps onto the stage, and begins to do unspeakable things to the pole mounted there. He looks so serious and earnest about it I nearly wet myself (from laughing, and a little...well, not so much from laughing).

As the partygoers eventually trot off to their homes and their families, I open the doors to the public and our regular mob shuffles in. Leaning against the bar chatting with Mikey, I watch Justin mingle, noting the abundant leering that follows him around the room. I'm not the only one. Determined to ensure his supremacy, Brandon retains the role of my successor wannabe and trails him, intentionally posing and bumping up against his intended adoring public. Pathetic. The sorry longhaired challenger needs to take a lesson. Justin knows how to do it. Hell, he should after watching me all these years. You don't _try_ to be noticed. You _know_ you'll be noticed. The confidence is half the battle. Poor shlub still doesn't get the difference between confidence and cockiness (the non-organ variety). O.k., so I'm not always clear on the distinction myself. 

Still, as Justin joins me, Li'l Fabio struts up behind him, pleased as punch that even if it's not him garnering one hundred percent of the attention, it's also not me. Insufferably smug, he goads, "I told you your days were numbered, Kinney. You've lost your youth, you've lost your title, your throne. You've lost everything."

Stopping Justin from jumping to my defense, I slide my hand up his tensing back, gripping the nape of his neck. Turning my head, I capture his eyes and echo his assurance from years before when I made that same assertion. "Not everything." Like a spring waterfall, luminous gratification cascades down his face, his smile brighter than the mid-day summer sun.

I can't even fault The Casanova Kid. It's all true. And I'm sure I would have challenged my predecessor the same way had there been one. I, of course, am the original. But the fact of the matter is that I came to terms with the reality of it, the inevitability of it when the lad made his first unwelcomed appearance. Time marches on, and the fucker's going to take me with it no matter what I do. All in all, the consequences aren't completely tragic. Sure, some are even worse than what I always feared, but others...they're actually improvements. And then there are those so foreign to anything I foresaw that comparison is impossible.

My hand still firm on his neck, I pull Justin up onto the platform with Michael, Emmett and Ted in tow, all of us swaying together to the heavy beat. One by one the boys peel off to join their better halves, leaving just Justin and I hovering above the crowd. I close my eyes, resting my arms on his shoulders and my head against his, remembering why when I was forced to nauseatingly conjure up a "happy place" this is where my brain traveled. Yes, because of him. But although he flawlessly completes the picture, it goes beyond that, to long before him. This is my universe. It's who I am. Where I belong. It's where no matter what crazy scenario is generated by the ever-changing kaleidoscope of life, I endure. Where no matter what, I'll always keep on dancing.


End file.
